Lessons Learned
by Cherielynn
Summary: Please read parts one (Good old Fashioned Nightmare) and part two (Daylight) before reading this part. This story belongs to the "Nightmare" series. It has been two years since Sherlock put the collar on John and tried to force him into a submissive relationship for his own protection. Moriarty hasn't been heard from during this time and John has been happily living in the US.
1. Chapter 1

John traced his finger along the heart shaped frame before he took it out of the suitcase. Tara, Tommy and his own face started back with grins as wide as watermelon slices. They'd taken that photo over two years ago just a short time after his return to New Mexico and his stolid life as Dr. John Tennant. He sighed longingly and finished unpacking the meager contents of his two small travel bags into the closet and bureau of his old bedroom in his childhood home.

John felt only numbness as he stepped off the plane at Heathrow airport that morning. He'd gotten a call from his mother two days before telling him that his father had passed away in hospital. John found himself facing a dilemma. Mycroft had made it clear that John should stay very far away from England if he knew what was good for him. Since Sherlock had sacrificed himself so that John could have the family he'd always longed for, he'd better go back to them and stay out of Mycroft's path. John had left London soon after and returned to the only place he felt safe, loved and secure, Tara's arms.

But, his mother needed him now and he'd be damned if he would let old memories of Sherlock Holmes keep him away from his own mother in her time of need. Fortunately, Harry had helped to take care of most of the arrangements, and all John needed to do was attend the services the next day. However, his mother had been inconsolable and needed John's help to get her through the next few weeks. So, John had packed a bag and taken the risk of coming back to London despite his fear of seeing either Holmes brother.

It had been two years since he'd been back to his native country, and now that he was standing in his parent's house in west London, he could almost believe the time he'd spent living with Tara and Tommy had been some kind of dream.

The November wind rattled against the windows of the prewar house. His parents had never insulated the upstairs the way they had done the downstairs rooms and he shivered a bit at the wintery cold. Even though it was early November, the New Mexico he'd just left had still been warm; it had been shorts weather. Coming back to rainy, damp London had been a bit of a culture shock. But, here he was despite the fact that he never thought he'd get to return to London ever again.

"All right, Johnny?" his mother asked poking her head into his room.

"Yeah," he replied. "Just putting my things away." He tried a smile but found it didn't sit quite right on his face. "I can't get over how much the place smells like it used to. I mean…. It all just comes rushing back."

"It's good to have you here. I missed you, John," she said and moved into the room. "I'm glad your troubles are over and you came back."

"I'm not sure they are entirely over, Mum. But, I'm not letting anything keep me from being here for you."

Before he knew it, she wrapped her arms around him in a warm, strong hug. She was a few inches shorter than he was and he kissed the top of her iron grey head. He hadn't felt the need to cry since he'd heard the news of his father's passing, but now the sadness in his chest welled up. He really wanted nothing more than to stay here in this house with his mother for a good long while and let the familiar sights and sounds of London wash over him.

"You're welcome to stay here as long as you like, son," she said into his chest. "I like having you around. And, I think you should stay a while."

John laughed at that and said, "I'll stay as long as you let me." To hell with Mycroft, he thought. This was his home and now that he was back, he thought he might stay and try to recapture his old life as John Watson again. Maybe two years was long enough to let bygones be bygones…

After his mother left, he set the little picture on the desk he'd last used back in secondary school and sat on the bed. His "family" stared back at him. He'd kept the picture even though Tara had left him over three months ago when she had decided to take an administrative position at a middle school in Albuquerque. She asked him to move with her, eyes pleading for him to say yes. But, something in him knew he wouldn't go with her. Tara had worked hard the past year to earn her administrator's license and the job offered her twice the pay of a teacher. Of course she should take it. It would mean a much better life for both her and Tommy. But, John knew he wouldn't, or couldn't, join them.

Ever since his return to the U.S., John had held some part of himself in reserve. He'd never fully moved into Tara's adobe house, but he kept his own apartment as a place he could retreat to on occasion. He knew it hurt her that he couldn't fully commit himself to the relationship, but she'd often told him he should take all the time he needed to make sure he knew what he wanted. After a while, Tara began to read between the lines and sense she would never truly have what she craved most from John, his heart.

So, she applied for administrator positions in other cities, put her house up for sale and moved to Albuquerque. He'd helped her pack up the U-Haul and kissed her and a sobbing Tommy goodbye. She told him he'd always be welcome to see her son anytime he wanted. That almost broke him. He and Tommy had bonded in an unexpected way he'd never thought he'd do with another man's child. But, even the boy had suspected John was never going to be his "Dad" in a way he needed him to be. So, they said their goodbyes and became separate again.

After they'd left, John had spent the next two days waffling between feeling like he wanted to rush off to join them and ask Tara to marry him, and relief at having them gone. Eventually, his days blended into to one another, and he got used to his own solitude. He still occasionally missed them, but the relief won out and he settled into a steady routine. He'd let them slip away because deep down, he thought he might still be waiting for something else to happen.

He'd kept the picture of them all together because it made him happy to think he'd been part of a good thing once, and maybe he could be again. There might be something out there for him if he just kept himself open to it. After all, he'd survived his experiences with two genius maniacs over two years ago. Anything was possible.

John put the finishing touches on his unpacking, and arranged his room in a precisely military manner. He picked up his phone to go downstairs to eat the delicious chicken dinner he could smell his mother cooking from the second floor, when it pinged unexpectedly. Curious, John looked at the number. It was unfamiliar and that sent a small trill of worry through his insides. He only given three people in the world his cell phone number and that was Tara, Tommy and his mother. Neither member of his former family was likely to call him at this moment, and his mother was just downstairs so who could it be? It was a local number and John stared at it a few seconds before pressing "new text message."

It read: **Welcome back.**

John stared at the two words. No identifying name. He doubted Mycroft would contact him in this manner, or be so polite. That left two possibilities and he didn't really want to believe it was either one. The possibility that Moriarty might still be alive still galled John. The message might be from him. The bastard might be toying with him. Mycroft had revealed they'd never recovered Jim's body after John had detonated the collar on his neck and shoulder. He'd kept up on London news over the years, and according to all the legitimate papers and TV programs, Moriarty had never been caught or brought to justice. He might have laid low, recovering slowly and gathering strength after losing his prime asset, Sherlock. But, somehow this didn't feel like James Moriarty's style.

"John, dinner!" his mother called from downstairs. That shook John out of his reverie.

"Thanks, yeah. I'm coming," he called back pocketing the phone and pushing away the other thought that loomed large in his thoughts about who the message could be from, **_Sherlock….._**


	2. Chapter 2

Three days after his father's funeral, John decided to make a run to Tesco to pick up some groceries for his mother. Their neighborhood store was only a few blocks away so it was no hardship for him to pick up some much needed items. He'd spent the morning on the phone with his landlord in New Mexico making arrangements for his few remaining possessions to be sold off at an estate sale. After being back, John had decided he wanted to stay in London and try to keep a low profile. His mother had offered him his old room for as long as he needed it. His father had left both he and Harry a modest inheritance for which he was grateful. He had no intentions of living off his elderly mother any longer than necessary.

He wasn't destitute, but his dwindling bank account had taken a hit with a cross continental flight. He found that picking up and starting over never really got any easier each time he did it, but the idea of coming back home to London eased something he hadn't known he was missing.

His phone pinged as he began his return journey back from the market, and his stomach gave a little lurch. He stopped a moment and set his bags down in order to pull his phone from his front pocket. He'd not received any more texts since the last mysterious message, and he had put it from his mind in order to deal with the hordes of family that had descended on the Watson household the past few days. His aunts, six or seven cousins and his sister had been in attendance, hovering over his mother and offering all manner of condolences and help. It was really great to see everyone again. After being separated from his family for so long, they all welcomed him right back into the fold and admonished him for being "away" for so long. He'd been overwhelmed at the warmth and support everyone had shown his mother, but it was him that she seemed to lean on the most during this time. He found he didn't mind how much she needed him. It gave him a sense of purpose to be there for her.

It all seemed so perfect and healing except for one problem: he didn't know if he'd ever be free from his former life. Case in point, the phone in his hand felt too warm. He swiped the screen and the text read: **You forgot the tea.**

He simply stared at the message. Sure enough, he thought back over his purchases and found he had forgotten the tea. But, he and his mother would just have to manage without it because John would not be going back to the store.

"Git!" he said aloud to the sky. "Git, git, git…." A woman made a wide circle around him as she walked past him on the sidewalk. He was sure he looked the lunatic with a furious look on his face. "Git!" he said one last time. He squared his shoulders and trotted back at full speed to his mother's house with the groceries. He let himself in to the now quiet house and set the bags down on the table. No one was home just then and that gave John a moment to pull a kitchen chair out and sink down in it.

"Git," he said softly to the swirling dust motes floating through the morning sun in his mother's kitchen. It had to be Sherlock. John knew the consulting detective had the means to know if or when he'd come back to London, and he also had the means to have him followed. He was sure the homeless network probably still provided Sherlock with plenty of information, so it shouldn't be a surprise that he was being watched so closely. They had probably been on the lookout for him since he'd returned. He had no idea if Mycroft was aware Sherlock had faked his own death either. If Sherlock wanted to remain "dead" so be it. He didn't know if Sherlock could have kept something like that from Mycroft for long, but he wouldn't give the secret away.

He had no idea what the texts might mean, but Sherlock, it seemed, was trying to reach out to him. Did he want that? Was that why he'd come back?

John got up to put the groceries away before his mother returned from where ever their family had taken her this morning. He felt hungry so he fixed himself some food remembering that long ago lunch when Mycroft's men had spirited him away while he tried to drink his tea. As he ate, he thought back to very beginning of the whole "collared" business. He wondered what would have happened if Mycroft hadn't interfered in his life.

He felt that if there was one person in all the world that could have eventually taken Moriarty's network down, it would have been Sherlock. If they'd just been given the chance….

His phone trilled and John sighed. He'd been expecting another text so the incoming call surprised him. He looked down at the number showing on his screen, unlisted. He answered with a curt, "Yes?" and waited tensely for a reply.

The voice on the other end was deep, melodious and intimately familiar but not the one he was expecting, "Hello, Dr. Watson."

"Mycroft," John said expelling the breath he'd been holding in so the last part of the name came out in a half whisper. The bottom had dropped out of his stomach at the thought he'd been caught yet again by the unforgiving British Government. He thought he might have more time before it all started up again, or he'd even dared to hope he'd just be forgotten and left to live a quiet life of a NHS clinic doctor.

"I see you've found your way back to London. My condolences on your father's passing," Mycroft said pausing a moment. John marveled at the man's attention to social customs even in the most extreme situations.

"Uh, thanks," John replied trying to gather his composure, "Have you been texting me?"

"No…" Mycroft drew the word out. "I have not. But, I do wish to meet with you."

"So, we're scheduling a meeting this time? I get to have some input on the when and where?" John asked raking a hand through his short, blonde hair that was only a touch greyer than it had been two years ago. A fleeting thought ran through his mind, _I wonder what Sherlock looks like now?_

"Of course. I have a matter of some urgency to speak with you about."

"Matter of some urgency? Is that code for claping me in irons and hauling me away to some little room?"

"No, John," Mycroft replied using his first name. That made John pause. He couldn't recall a time that Mycroft had ever used his given name to address him. "I have a job offer I'd like to propose. There's a car waiting outside your residence if you have time now?"

John pulled aside the kitchen curtain and saw an unobtrusive, black sedan with tinted windows waiting outside. It looked out of place in his mother's quaint old neighborhood. It reminded him of a purring housecat. It looked domesticated enough, but underneath its inoffensive exterior, John knew it contained a lethal predator capable of shredding unsuspecting prey.

"Job offer? What if I say no?" he asked challengingly.

"Then, I'd be disappointed," Mycroft said and the unspoken threat hung heavily in silence that followed.

"Yeah, I can come," John said after the pause, because if it was starting again, he may as well face it head on. Long ago Mycroft had diagnosed his need for danger. Perhaps that was why John felt a little thrill run through his heart at the thought of getting into the black sedan. Maybe the sedate, run-of-the-mill life with a wife and kids would never be in his future. Maybe, deep down, he didn't want it to be.


	3. Chapter 3

John marveled at finding himself once again in the posh sitting room at the Diogenes club. This time however, it was just the two of them. Mycroft had waved away his usual bodyguards and invited John in to sit down in order to talk like two gentlemen.

"I realize the significance of this particular location," Mycroft began. "I wanted you to know, I've given my actions of two years ago a great deal of thought. I have concluded that I am solely responsible for Sherlock's demise. I hope I can atone for my involvement somehow, someday. I also hope I can have your forgiveness as well. I know I don't deserve it, but I hope…" and here he paused.

John simply stared back at the man. What did he expect him to say?

So instead, he said nothing. John could think of no real words of comfort for Mycroft as he kept seeing the words " **You forgot the tea** ," running across his vision. Sherlock wasn't dead. He felt at quite a loss here.

He'd acted totally on autopilot as he'd gotten into the car in front of this mother's house and found Mycroft himself waiting for him in the backseat. Mycroft wished him away to the Diogenes and John had not batted an eye at the location.

Now that they were here, Mycroft Holmes seemed to be having an actual emotional moment with him. The usually stiff exterior seemed to crumble right in front of him as John watched one of the only men in the world who had more power than the Queen of England come apart still holding a fragrantly filled teacup of bone china in his hand.

Mycroft sighed and set the cup down before he spilled any tea and just sat in front of John. The only real sign he was in distress came from the tiny quiver in his bottom lip as he sat stiffly. John waited patiently for Sherlock's usually unruffled older brother to finally get to the point. The emotional moment passed; Mycroft took a deep breath and composed himself.

"I have information about our old friend, Moriarty," Mycroft began.

"Oh?" John answered neutrally. He waited a couple of beats allowing the other man to continue at his own pace.

"We believe he survived the warehouse battle where you were held, and escaped to Eastern Europe. He's been seen again in Paris and here in London as recently as last month. We believe he's re-enlisted some of his former contacts and is now doing business stronger than ever."

John shifted uncomfortably in his seat at this news. "What does that have to do with me?" he asked.

"Once again, we have to call on your unique services to help our country," Mycroft intoned regaining some of his stiff upper lip.

"My services?" John pondered what Mycroft might possibly mean. The last time he'd heard those words, he ended up wearing an explosive collar with the direct command he provide sexual services to his best friend. He had a particularly bad feeling about what was coming.

"We'd like you to make contact with an old friend," Mycroft said.

For a second John was sure Mycroft meant Sherlock. His eyes widened and he wondered if Mycroft knew the truth about the faked death. But, the confusion didn't last long because Mycroft passed him a tablet with the face of someone he hadn't thought of in over two years, Trevor, the man who had betrayed him.

Whoever had managed to take this photo had captured a radically changed Trevor, all gaunt cheeks, and hollow eyes. He looked like a pale copy of his once vibrant self. John now saw in his former army buddy a man who looked beaten down and on his last wind. He looked like a man who'd had to fight for every scrap of food he'd eaten in the past two years, a man who rarely saw the inside of a shower, and a man who looked more hunted than hunter. The desperation shone through his eyes and straight into John's soul. John's burning resentment for the man began to weaken as he scrolled through several other shots of his former friend. His wasted, filthy body generated only pity in John. Even though the man had screwed him over, he had ultimately been the means for his escape from London two years earlier. John felt some gratitude towards Trevor in light of the modest help he'd given him with the collar, and the sight of him in such poor condition did something to his guts.

"Is he still in prison?" John asked tracing a finger over Trevor's gaunt face. "He looks like shite!"

"Oh yes," Mycroft said and John felt a chill at the icy tone he used. "He crossed me once too often. If I had my way, he'd rot there for the rest of his life. But, I need to make a deal with him. Actually, you need to make a deal with him."

John looked up at Mycroft and encountered a stoic face, pursed lips and an arched brow. "It has come to my attention that he has vital intel regarding Moriarty's current whereabouts. You will infiltrate the prison currently holding the vile worm, and get him to tell me where I can find Moriarty's right hand man."

"You want to send me to the same place that did this to Trevor? This is a South American prison, Mycroft. I've heard horror stories about places like these. If a battle hardened fighter like Trevor is in this condition, I doubt I'd last very long. I've definitely gotten a bit soft living in the States."

"We're sending you in under cover. You are the only person he _might_ trust at this point. We know he won't make a deal with me or any of my people. Even as beaten as he is, he still has some sliver of self-preservation. We believe he'll talk to you if he thinks you've been incarcerated in with him. You'll have to make him believe it. We've bribed the warden and he's going to house you in the same cell as our friend. You will get special treatment and some protection. We're authorized to offer Trevor a plea bargain for telling us where we can find Sebastian Moran and Moriarty. If he tells us where to find him, we'll get you both out."

"What if he doesn't want to talk? What if he doesn't give up Jim?" John asked.

"You'll have to convince him, John. Do you really think you'll ever be able to live in London as a free man with James Moriarty free? The only reason he hasn't come after you is that you've been under my protection since you've set foot on British soil."

"You've been….protecting me?" John asked. He'd barely had time to process the fact that Sherlock seemed to be stalking him, and now Mycroft had been looking over his shoulder the whole time he'd been back. He wondered if he would he ever be free of these infernal Holmes brothers.

"When he tells us where to find him, we'll get you both out," Mycroft said. "You will offer him his freedom and even protection. He'll take the deal."

"What if he doesn't want to talk? What if he doesn't give up Jim?" John asked.

"You'll have to convince him, John. Do you really think you'll ever be able to live in London as a free man with James Moriarty out there? The only reason he hasn't come after you is that you've been under my protection since you've set foot on British soil."

"You've been….protecting me?"

"I've had you under 24 hour surveillance since the day you arrived. I know everything you've been up to since you arrived."

Except a couple of interesting text messages, John thought.

" I believe that even after Sherlock's… Even after you escaped from him two years ago, Moriarty would still love nothing more than to sink his claws into you."

"Why am I so important to him or to you? Without Sherlock I'm a nobody, a washed up ex-solider turned family physician. I couldn't even get a ready-made family to work out in the States. I only came back for my mother and maybe a new start. Why am I so bloody important to a megalomaniac and …you!" John said hearing his voice rise. He knew he was inviting all the old frustration to rush back and wash over him. Perhaps he'd been a fool to think he'd ever really be free of it.

"You've always been important, Dr. Watson. Ever since you threw in your lot with Sherlock, you changed your destiny in ways that are still playing out even today. I knew this wasn't finished, and I knew you still had a part to play. I will find and destroy Moriarty. I'd like, this time, to ask for your help. I believe my fatal mistake last time was forcing you to conform to my demands. This time I'd like to appeal to your sense of justice and duty. More importantly, I'd like to offer you a chance to really start over. I can promise you a clean slate. I'd reinstate your medical license here in the UK. I can offer you a position of your choice at any medical facility you'd like to work in, and I'd pay you 500,000 pounds to restart your life in exchange for a few days of your time, maybe a week. Get me the information I need about Moriarty's whereabouts, and I'll cut you loose. I'll promise to leave you alone to live your life as you see fit, I give you my word."

"I'm not sure I trust your word, Mycroft," John said evenly. "I'm going to need a guarantee."


	4. Chapter 4

John nervously picked at his new prison uniform. He'd been given a plain beige, button up shirt and a pair of chino pants that hung two inches too long on his short frame. It had taken nearly two months for Mycroft to get him into San Pedro's prison in La Paz, Bolivia. The inmates called it St. Peter's.

As soon as he arrived, he discovered what Mycroft had told him about the place to be all too true. In a space that had originally been built to house 350 inmates, it now held over 1500 men their wives and even some of their children. He'd been stunned to discover that prisoners had to rent their own cells and that some of them paid a premium price to get multi-storied apartments complete with hot tubs while the poorer souls might get crammed 15 to a cell.

Trevor, it seemed, had managed to land a smallish cell with only one cell mate named Julio Baz, another ex-military mercenary for hire. They had worked together to carve out some stability for themselves among the other half-starved men condemned to living out stretches of their lives in this lurid hell. Mycroft had pulled strings to have added to the cell. Three to a room, but it could have been worse, John thought.

"In line!" one of the guards shouted at him. He was one of three men being processed that day as new prisoners. One of the sweaty, burly guards handed him a scratchy blanket and a small plastic bag that contained a wiry toothbrush, a tin cup and of all things, a plastic comb. He carried them in his outstretched arms and shuffled forward with the other two men toward an iron door that would separate him from the rest of humanity. He'd been shoved to the back of the line by the other two inmates and already regretted his decision to help Mycroft with his daft plan to find out Moriarty's whereabouts. He felt in over his head.

Part of his intake had been a brief visit with the warden of St. Peter's to determine how much help he could expect. John understood that while he wasn't actually incarcerated in any real way, the others must not know his mission. He'd be hit if he talked back to a guard, he'd be punished by the other inmates if he did anything they didn't like, and he'd be shanked or worse if they thought he was anything other than one of the unlucky bastards thrown in hell with them.

John shuffled quietly along to his destination and was shocked again when he passed a gaggle of young children playing a makeshift game of kick the can in a small clearing that might be considered part of the prison's outdoor exercise area. They were being tended by a group of young women all with long, dark hair. One of them looked up curiously at him as he passed by. He quickly ducked his head and tried not to stare. While he'd read that some of the inmates families stayed with them in the facility, it still shocked him to see children growing up in this sad, squalid place. The last thing he wanted to do was to piss off someone's husband or boyfriend so he kept his eyes down.

The grim march finally ended when John arrived in front of a another barred door. This one opened up to the main residency area where Trevor had been incarcerated for over two years. His guard finally stopped at a final door that opened into a cramped cell with two "bunk" style beds. The top bed had a stained mattress and no bedding while the bottom one looked more lived in. It had a number of "wank" magazines spread on it and a pillow. The guard gave him a little push into the cell and John understood this was his new home for the duration. There were only two beds, one of which looked empty but John understood there were three men in the room.

He stepped in using neat military movements and set his items on the top bunk. The guard laughed low and dirty, and shook his head. That unnerved John more than anything else so far and he decided to just wait and see. He consoled himself with the idea that he would not be here long.

"What?" John asked. "Should I not put my stuff…"

The guard laughed again and moved off leaving John to his fate.


	5. Chapter 5

As he nervously waited for his cellmate to return, he busied himself spreading his blanket over his bed and tucking his few personal items on shelf that looked fairly unoccupied. Mycroft had tried to arrange for him to bunk with Trevor but couldn't guarantee it. He highly suspected his cell mate was at least twice Trevor's size by the look of the large indent in the bottom mattress.

He thought back to what Mycroft had told him. "I'd like to send you in as a captured prisoner to gain his trust. Then, you'll get him to tell me where Sebastian Moran is hiding Moriarty."

"Oh, it's that simple, is it? He's just going to tell me because we're prison buddies? I'm sure I'm the last person Trevor wants to see. I'm pretty much the reason he's in that hell hole to begin with. He may just put my lights out when he sees me."

"Oh," Mycroft said placing a tenuous hand on John's shoulder. "He will want to listen to your offer. I don't believe he'll last another two years in that prison. He knows it, too. He'll be receptive to a plea bargain. I'm positive of it."

John wanted to shrug the man's pale hand off him and barely managed not to growl at the unwanted touch, but he held it together. If he could do this mission, he'd be free to live his life again. He wanted that freedom very much and as much as he hated Mycroft Holmes, he knew he would keep his word. He could reproach himself all he wanted at this point, but he was in it now. He'd just have to do his best and try not to get himself severely injured or killed.

John paced the small, squalid cell for over twenty minutes. He only had enough room to go ten paces across. He couldn't bring himself to sit on the disgusting floor. He kept seeing the unsettling laugh of the guard when he'd placed his stuff on the bed. He still didn't know if the top bunk was going to be his so he just took everything back off the bed and shelf and put it in a neat pile next to the wall. Finally, he heard the clump of approaching footsteps, more than three or four men judging by the sounds they made as they approached. John nerved himself for his face to face meeting and with his old mate, Trevor.

"What the fuck is this?" John heard a heavily Australian accent just before he saw three men peek around the threshold of the open door. "Looks like I've got company." The owner of the voice pushed past the other two and strode into the room. He stood at least six foot five. He looked like he'd had an intimate relationship with metabolic steroids prior to his stay at St. Peters and was younger by ten years than the other two. He trundled up to John and shoved his massive chest into John's face and pushed him right into the wall.

A show of dominance right off the bat, John thought. "You are in my fucking space, little rat. This is my room. Who said you could be in here?"

He could see Trevor hovering in the doorway watching the scene in front of him with great interest but decidedly not wanting to get involved. From the look on his face, he didn't seem to recognize him just yet.

John knew he had to assert himself, not too aggressively, or he'd be a pile of whimpering flesh on the floor in a few minutes. Mr. Australia reached out one meaty arm and placed it on the wall just above John's head and glared daggers at him. He reached up with his other hand and traced a curled finger along John's cheek. "Kinda pretty, little one."

John huffed but kept his cool. "I've been assigned this cell," John said keeping his eye contact firm. But, he couldn't help clearing his throat twice, a nervous habit he knew he had when faced with antagonistic situations.

"I'm your cellmate. My name's John," he continued punctuating his explanation by throwing a glance at his meager pile of possessions on the floor next to his feet as if somehow the presence of these items would explain everything.

Mr. Australia kicked his heavily booted foot through John's pile scattering everything and sending his tin cup rattling under the lower bunk bed. John spared a quick side glance and saw his little black comb snap in half with a sad little plastic pop. He turned his gaze back to the man looming over him and squared his jaw. "I'm small and don't take up much room. I'll stay out of your way."

"Watson?" John heard from the doorway. "Is that you?" Trevor finally came into the room. It already felt crowded with just the two of them and stood next to the glowering Australian. "Walt. Stand down," he said authoritatively and to John's eternal thankfulness, the beefy man stepped back.


	6. Chapter 6

John swallowed and allowed himself to relax, a little. He ducked around Walt's massive frame and found himself face to face with his former army buddy. He'd saved this man's life once, suffered through his own hellish injury to make sure he survived that day on the battlefield and now, here they were again. Their fates seemed intertwined no matter how often John tried to clear the slate.

"Trevor," John managed keeping his eyes locked on his former friend. Trevor's pictures in Mycroft's files had revealed some of the aging he'd undergone in the past two years, but up close, he'd visually aged almost ten years since John had last seen him. His face looked grimy, dirt caked into his large pores, hair greasy but cropped short as if a child with a pair of dull scissors had cut it. He looked gaunt, hungry and wild.

John hoped there was enough left of his former comrade in arms to see reason in the offer he would make. Mycroft had spelled out the terms of the plea bargain but he had to be assured the intel he would get in return would absolutely lead to finding Moran and hopefully Moriarty.

"Uh, hi." John began but only got those two words out before Trevor took up where Walt had left off. He grabbed the lapels of John's khaki shirt and pushed him right back up against the wall. "Answer the man's question, Watson. What are you doing here?"

John scrabbled at Trevor's grip. For a man who looked half-starved, he had remarkable strength. "Mycroft.. Holmes…" he croaked.

"Bastard!" Trevor bellowed in his face. "Never say that slimy fucker's name in my presence again or I'll," here he twisted his fist even further into John's shirt until he heard a rip and felt the material give. Trevor pushed so hard on his chest, John found it hard to draw in breath. He felt close to passing out. If he did, he had no idea if he'd ever wake up.

"The bastard…" John tried still trying to breathe, "caught me in London,"

Trever's eyes narrowed as he looked into John's face. John had already decided that he'd spin his story as close to the truth as possible. Men like Trevor could spot a lie a mile off. Finally, he felt Trevor's grip lesson. "Why in fuck did you go back? I heard you'd gotten clear and were living with your girl and her son in the states. Why would you give that up?"

John's surprise at Trevor knowing this about his personal life lasted only a moment. Men like Trevor had their networks, even in prison.

" I came back for my father's funeral," he pressed on doggedly trying to croak out words with the little breath he'd managed to pull into his lungs. "He caught me coming back from the Tesco buying groceries for my mum."

Behind Trevor, Walt snorted a laugh and said in a high falsetto voice, "Buying groceries for me mum…"

"Shut it, Walt," Trevor snapped at him and shook his head. Walt dried up. Trevor seemed to be the alpha male in this group and John hoped that would play in his favor.

"I've always admired you, Doc but why in hell's name would you put yourself back into that man's path?"

John looked at the floor. He'd actually begun to seriously question the decision himself but it boiled down to one thing, "I have to get free of it, him all of it. I took a chance coming back to London that he wouldn't care about me anymore. I had to help out my mum. She needed me. I know it's stupid but there it is. Besides, my girl in the states….we broke up."

"Sorry to hear that, Doc," Trevor said shaking his head. "But I have to say the thought of you off with that hot little honey living the good life made me a little bit jealous. I'm not sure I've got that much sympathy that you've been tossed in here with the rest of us."

John absorbed that a moment before continuing not sure how to proceed with that revelation. "I was an idiot to think I could ever go back to my family in London. Mycrof…The bastard thinks I'm responsible for his brother's death."

Trevor fully relaxed his grip on John's shirt and let him fall back against the wall. "Yeah, I heard about that too. Famous consulting detective jumps off a building. So, he threw you in here to rot to get his revenge on you for his brother?"

John pursed his lips together and shook his head. "That and other things…," he said.

Trevor threw back his head and laughed. It was a wild sound that sent a shiver of fear straight into John's belly. He sounded like a man just on the verge of madness. "I'm sure the other things would make a wonderful story to hear. Can't wait." He clapped John on the back and pulled him away from the wall. "Well, welcome to our little corner of St. Pete's hell. You can bunk in here with Walter; he won't bother you….. much. But we spend our days in the rec room, such as it is."

"Trev," Walt began following behind them like a forgotten puppy, " This is my room. You said I'd get it to myself."

"Shut it, Walt. Doc here is an asset to our little team. He's a bona fide doctor, he is," he said throwing the much larger man a wide smile. "Trust me, we want 'im with us. Like he said, he's little and won't take up a bit of room. Will you, Doc?"

John nodded agreement and followed Trevor out of the narrow cell and back into the hallway. Even though he felt the "meet and greet" had gone better than he expected, he didn't trust Trevor any further than he could throw him. He'd have to keep on his guard and find the right time get man off on his own. Everything depended on Trevor's cooperation.

He hoped he could gain the man's trust soon. The smell in the corridor made John want to vomit up what little food he'd eaten that morning. It smelled like rotted meat and shit in varying degrees. Trevor lead him past several more smallish cells and into a wide, sun baked courtyard he hadn't seen before. There was a single spigot in one corner and a gaggle of children hovered around it washing their hands and heads in a sullen stream of water than poured from it onto the hard-packed dirt ground. John reckoned it must be at least 95 degrees, he chuckled at that and remembered to recalculate in Celsius. 39 then. Still, it was bloody hot.

"Thirsty?" Trevor asked him. There's the water cooler, Doc. Just push the kiddies out t'way. They get a little possessive of it at times."

John eyed the mud splattered children some of which were as young as two or three years old. "I'm okay for now," he said followed the other men over to a shaded corner of the courtyard. While the majority of prisoners were Latino, this appeared to be a meeting place of sorts for the Anglo men incarcerated in this part of the prison.

A wooden table with a scattering of chairs grouped around it seemed to be their destination and they arrived with greetings from some of the other men. From what John could tell at first glance, this group contained men from UK, Australia or Canada. Most were ex-military from their well-muscled arms and thick necks, definitely Trevor's usual gang. Looking around at each face, he recognized one of the men from his brief time in Trevor's employ two years ago. He remembered stitching the man up after a particularly nasty stab wound. The man nodded at him and gave him a grin which made John feel a bit more relaxed. It was remarkable how grateful a person could be when you provided life-saving medical assistance.

"This is John, everybody. I'd just call 'em Doc. We're gonna' give him a trial run in our group. I knew him on the outside and he's an upstanding fellow," Trevor announced to the group. "He may or may not have a bug up his ass about some dealings we had a few years back, but if so that's between him and me. I hope he can let bygones be bygones, as they say…." Here Trevor eyed him warily waiting for some kind of response.

John simply nodded and said, "I don't think I really have the luxury of holding a grudge now," he said and addressed the group, "Anybody need a doctor, just make an appointment," he said trying for a joke. The smile on his face died as he looked at the grim circle of soldiers gathered around the rickety table. "Eh, yeah. Bygones. No worries."

"Good!" Trevor said clapping him on the back once more. Someone produced a weathered deck of playing cards and a makeshift game of poker began. There weren't enough chairs for everyone in the group so John just leaned up against a support beam nearby and watched the men play. The hottest part of the day crept up on them and the slim section of shade disappeared entirely making rivulets of sweat drip down his back and chest. He finally decided he needed a drink of water or he might just pass out from heat exhaustion and stress.

When most of the men seemed interested in game, he sidled over to the water spigot. Just as he was about to reach for the handle when a young, brown haired boy stepped in front of him. "You gotta pay, Gringo."

John pulled back from the boy. He remembered Trevor telling him to just push 'em aside… So John tried asserting himself and pushed past the boy. As soon as he did however, he was met with a large shadow falling over the spigot. A huge, dark skinned man had materialized out of nowhere. "You pay, little rata!" he boomed at him. "Water costs."

John looked back around to Trevor's group. They had all stopped playing and were insentiently watching this new drama unfold. Trevor grinned at him but none of his new found "friends" made any move to support him or come to his aid. Apparently, he was on his own with this first trial. Not having water for the next few days was not an option in this heat. He sighed and turned back to face his opponent.

"What do you want?" he began.

"Rata, I want your boots!" The man answered pointing at John's feet. He let out a huge laugh holding his extended belly covered only in a once-white, wife beater style undershirt. "Boots for one drink."

"Price seems a bit high," John said amicably. There was no way he'd give the man his boots for a drink. This wouldn't do. And why was everyone referring to him as "rat?" A bit insulting really. Then, he heard Sherlock's voice in his mind. It startled him in its clarity. "Observe, John. What do you see?" So he looked, really looked at the scene before him.

Two of the smallest children, twin boys, bore a striking resemblance to the man currently holding control of the spigot. The man most likely was their father, and the pair had most likely been born right in the prison.

"Impetigo," John said. Your sons have a nasty case of a pretty serious infection called Impetigo. If left untreated it could be serious. I could lead to scarlet fever which could be deadly."

"Eh? Rata." The man said looking back at his boys. John had inferred correctly judging by the man's reaction. "What are you talking about?" He shouted angrily. What's the matter with my _niños_?" He surged forward and John thought he may have badly miscalculated. After all, Sherlock's deductions often lead those he deduced to want to beat him to a bloody pulp.

He threw up both hands in a supplicating gesture. I'm a doctor. Your _niños_ , have a bad infection called im-peh-ti-go. It's contagious and if one of the children has it, they probably all do. I can treat it in return for some water."

The man looked skeptically at him. He went over to a young, thin boy and picked him up in a surprisingly gentle manner. "Pietro, he said pointing to the child. He's had this over a year now." He said pointing to an angry red rash spreading alongside the boy's arms and down his back. John saw blisters forming which suggested it had been left untreated a while and had advanced to an alarming stage. It sickened him to see the maltreatment these children faced in this place. Who in their right mind would allow such young kids to be raised in this environment? But, he put on his neutral, doctor face and examined the child with utmost care, careful not to touch the open sores or rash with his hands.

"I can treat this and cure it, but I need medicine. Do you have access to antibiotics?" John asked the man. It was surprising how quickly the once menacing man turned polite when John put on his "caring doctor" persona. Most parents cared more about their children than anything, John had discovered and he'd use this to his advantage here.

"Guarda!" the man spat. "The guards say it's a heat rash and to keep it clean and cool. Nothing works on it. They don't spend money on anything they don't have to. They want us to pay for everything ourselves." He lamented putting the boy down.

"Look , if you can get some Bactroan, it comes in a tube and is spread on top of the rash. It will go away. It takes a while, but it will work."

The man studied him and nodded. " I can get medicine. You write it here. If you tell the truth, you can drink for free. If you lie, I'll kill you."

"Fair enough," John said clearing his throat nervously again. He hoped he would not be around long enough to see the outcome of this treatment plan. But, for the children's sake, he hoped the father followed through and got the medicine. The man stepped aside and allowed John access to the spigot. He glanced back to men at the table and noticed that they'd all resumed their game. Bastards, John thought.

John used his cupped hand to pool the water. It tasted oily and bitter. He decided he didn't want to know the source but drank a bellyfull of it anyway. Lord knew what he'd have to do for more of it next time.

He doused his hair with the water and splashed some on his neck and arms before heading back to his new prison family, but before he left, the large man came back with a slip of paper and a pencil.

"Write the name here."

John carefully printed the name of the medicine and some alternative oral medications on the paper. "Put this cream on twice a day. If this doesn't work, you may have to have the boys take antibiotics by mouth too. It's a very advanced case they have." The man nodded again and disappeared back into another part of the building.

"Thanks for the help," he said sarcastically to Trevor as he neared the poker table.

"You gotta make your own way here, mate," Trevor said grinning. "You did all right for yourself.

He had, John thought. But he'd only been here half a day and he'd nearly been beaten three times. He'd have to try working on Trevor as soon as possible.


	7. Chapter 7

The game lost its appeal when Walt tried using a hidden ace up his sleeve and the rest of the men almost knocked the table over in their fury. Apparently, cheating was a dire offense especially when the pot contained almost half a pack of unsmoked cigarettes. John stepped back to avoid having any stray punches land in his direction and the fight finally broke up when Walt landed a solid punch on another man's nose, breaking it. No guards stepped in to break up the fight. In fact, the only armed guard John had seen the entire time he'd been there today was the disgruntled man who'd escorted him to his cell.

John was immediately called on to tend the injured man's copiously bleeding nose. He had no gloves and fretted about blood borne exposure the whole time. He tried to simply direct the other men on the correct method for stemming the flow, but eventually he had to wade in and apply pressure on the man's face himself. He seethed inwardly cursing Mycroft's name the whole time. If he ended up with Hepatitis B while he was here….He didn't want to think about what else these men might be carrying in their blood. He finally staunched the flow and helped the man calm down enough to check for broken bones. He'd have to reset the nose after the swelling had gone down, but he needed to wait until some solid clots formed. He didn't want to risk another episode of bleeding. Lord knew if the prison carried blood stores for a transfusion.

By the time he'd cleaned up at the spigot, he'd wanted nothing more than to lie down for a while. He had a furious stress headache. Trevor had disappeared during John's ministrations and that frustrated him even more. He didn't know which cell Trevor called his and didn't want to raise suspicions by snooping around or coming out and asking where he was. He'd just have to lay low and wait.

Apparently the prison system fed the men one meal a day at about six o'clock. It usually consisted of loaves of stale bread, packages of processed lunchmeat and wormy fruit. Most of the men had better edibles imported from outside but John had no one looking out for him so he'd have to put up the local fare if he wanted to survive the next few days.

Since it was only about three o'clock now, he decided to go back to his cell and try to get some rest. He entered the room and found it exactly as he'd left it, his possessions strewn about the floor. He gathered them up and spread his scratchy blanked over the top bunk. He fished out his tin cup from under the bed and set it on the shelf. There was no ladder to the top bunk and John had just begun to try to figure out a way to haul himself up when his roommate walked in.

Walt still had a fire in his eye from his fistfight, "You patch up McGowan, Doc?"

"Yeah," John said keeping his voice non accusatory. "He'll live."

"Good. Trevor said you'd be worth it." Walt moved into John's personal space. "I figure since you're gonna stay in here, you and me could make friends," he said reaching out to brush over John's cheek much like he had when he'd pinned John to the wall earlier.

John backed up. "Friends, sure, but nothing more than that. I…"

Walt surged forward and grabbed John's neck to pull him forward for a bruising kiss. All John could think about was how foul the man smelled. Sour cigarettes and some kind of rotgut alcohol issued off him in waves. John pushed back and Walt broke the kiss.

"That's all right, Doc. We got a nice long time to get to know each other. You ain't going anywhere and either am I," he said stepping back and grinning lewdly at him.

John groaned inwardly. What a goddamn cliché, he thought. He suddenly found he could scramble up to the top bunk pretty easily. He heaved himself up and backed all the way up to the wall. Walt brayed again, the man even laughed with an accent, and made a fake lunge at his ankle. John jerked it away from him tensing for more of a fight, but Walt gave him one last look and left the room. John lie on his back keeping one eye on the door in case the Australian asshole came back.

He couldn't help himself and closed his eyes for a moment. He jerked awake a few hours later when the guard that had escorted him earlier yelled at him from the doorway and threw a hard loaf of bread and a plastic package of cold cuts on his bed. "You want apples?" he asked.

"Yeah," John said eying the meat with more than a little disgust. The guard threw two, small green apples at him and he managed to catch one. The other rolled on the filthy ground and the guard snorted.

" _Pendejo_ ," he grumbled at him and disappeared. John had been briefed on the conditions of the prison, but experiencing it for himself continued still continued to surprise and unnerve him. He opened the package of processed meat and was greeted with an unpleasant smell. It most certainly had gone "off" and John discarded the idea of eating any of it. He turned his attention to the stale loaf of bread. He broke it open and discovered it did not contain any mold so he nibbled on it. It made him thirsty so he bit in to the apple to try to get some moisture back. It was terribly sour and sure enough, full of wriggly worms. He struggled through most of the bread and decided to try for another drink of water at the spigot.

He retrieved the fallen apple and put it in his pants pocket. He hoped Trevor would be about so he climbed off his bunk. The courtyard was even livelier now that the heat of the day had passed. A cool breeze floated through and most of the occupants of this section of the prison seemed to be taking advantage of it. He made his way over to the table and found a few of his new mates playing another game of cards. Trevor wasn't among them and John felt his final reserves leaving him. He wasn't going to be able to do this mission. He wondered if Mycroft had every intention of leaving him in here to rot for the rest of his life, and he'd never see London or his family again. He found a chair and dropped wearily into it. It seemed hopeless to him now. He sat for a while with his head in his hands and no one bothered him. Perhaps seeing him beaten had calmed something in them as well and they chose to leave him in peace.

After a while he looked up. The summer sun had dipped behind the prison walls and the courtyard darkened. It appeared gloomy and depressing. One lone light shone in the area casting long shadows as the dark descended. John didn't want to go back to his bunk. Maybe he could just sleep here in this chair… He raked his gaze over the area one more time, searching for any hint of Trevor when it fell on a figure he hadn't noticed before. The tall, lanky man wore a dark hoodie than only showed his glowing eyes. He appeared to be staring directly at John. He couldn't tell much about the man's features but he called to John's mind that famous scene in The Fellowship of the Ring with Strider in the bar at Bree. The line, "I look foul but feel fair," kept running through his mind. When the man caught John staring at him, he stood up and left the courtyard.

John might have been more interested in the hooded figure but at that moment Trevor made his appearance. It seemed he'd found a friendly bottle of whatever Walt had been drinking because he could barely stand up. He staggered off kilter and sat in a chair next to John. "Doc," he said with a slur. "Glad to have up with caught you this evening. I've been meaning to have a private word."

John tried his best not to rear back at the man's fuel soaked breath. "Trevor," he returned evenly. "That would be fine. But we might wait until tomorrow when you're a bit sober."

The man was in no shape to have a serious conversation with. John was going to have to wait until morning but he had an idea. "Let me help you back to your bunk, Trev," he ventured. If he got lucky, he find out where his cell was so he could catch him there tomorrow.

"Ah ha, Johnny boy," he said. "That might be a trick. I try not to ever be sober in here." Trevor said tried standing up. He swayed on his feet however and John rose to steady him.

"Just helping you out, mate. No funny business, okay?" he said putting an arm around the drunken man's waist in order to steady him.

"You're an upstanding guy, Doc. Thanks a lot," Trevor said grinning and leaned heavily on him. "This way," he pointed down a hallway John had not explored yet.

John got his shoulder under Trevor's arm in order to help him along, and began shuffling them both in the direction of, he hoped, Trevor's cell.


	8. Chapter 8

Hours later John woke up on the floor of Trevor's cell. He'd escorted the inebriated man back to his humble abode only to find it empty. His cellmate was nowhere to be seen. John shook Trevor mostly awake and discovered that Julio rarely slept in his bunk

"You can 'ave it for tonight, Doc. I gotta talk to you anyway."

"Yeah, all right," John assured him. "I'll stay here and make sure you don't choke on your own vomit."

In his condition, John doubted he'd remember much of their conversation.

Trevor's laughter ended in a huffing wheeze that John didn't like the sound of. He sounded asthmatic to top everything else off. "Shut the door," he commanded before he fell face down on the bottom bunk. "And, lock it."

John saw a makeshift deadbolt on the barred cell door and drew it across. Apparently, the prison had no lock down procedures for the night. Inmates just came and went from their cells at will. Life in this prison resembled something out of a Mad Max movie more than anything else. He hoped to god Julio didn't come back any time soon.

As John checked on a nearly comatose Trevor, he worried about how much the man had ingested. He wasn't showing signs of alcohol poisoning but John checked his vitals anyway. Without running some blood tests, he couldn't be sure but he'd spent a restless few hours of the night checking on Trevor's breathing. He'd finally pulled the mattress off of Julio's top bunk and laid it next to Trevor's bed on the floor so he could keep a better eye on the man. It would be just John's luck if Trevor died choking on his own vomit just before he could get the intel from him.

He got about six hours of good sleep that night and felt better for it the next morning. The sun was about an hour from rising and it was already warm in the stuffy little room. His stomach growled but he had no idea when he'd get more food. The only sustenance he could count on was the measly "dinner" he'd get at six o'clock. He remembered the second apple he'd retrieved from his cell floor and took it out of his pocket. He ate the whole thing in four bites, worms and all.

He looked around Trevor's cell for something else to eat and to his amazement, he found two chocolate bars. He actually felt guilty about breaking off half of one and gobbling it down in two sweet mouthfuls but did it anyway. He immediately felt better for the sugar.

Trevor slept on obliviously so John decided to wait until he woke up. He needed to piss and found a covered chamber pot in the corner he made use of. When he got out of this hell hole, he would never take indoor plumbing for granted again. He seemed to be hellishly thirsty but he closed his eyes and lie back down on the mattress. Trevor's breathing had evened out and he snored occasionally ending in a wheeze. Without meaning to, John fell back asleep.

The second time he woke up the sun was well above the horizon, the room stiflingly hot and Trevor sat cross legged on his bunk staring at him.

"Mornin' Doc. It seems you've managed to survive your first day."

John rubbed the back of his neck which had stiffened up from his sleep on the floor. "Yes, if you call this surviving."

"I think it's time we had a little chat," Trevor said eyeing him steadily. "I know why you're here, mate."


	9. Chapter 9

John sat up trying to wrap his mind around the last thing Trevor had just said, "Yeah?" he said neutrally. "Why is that?"

"Your boyfriend, Fuckcroft sent this up, dinnt he? What's he offering, then?"

John felt he should stand for this part and moved to get up off the floor. Trevor wasn't stupid. He'd seen right through their ploy. He placed a steadying hand on the bunk over Trevor's head and took a deep breath. All of Mycroft's master plan boiled down to this moment. He had to convince Trevor to give up Moran's location. If he couldn't pull this off, the whole thing would crash like a boulder thrown through rotting floorboards.

John ran a hand through his hair and rubbed his face. He felt stubble and two days worth of sweat and dust gathered on his cheeks and chin as he did so and wanted nothing more than a cool shower and a good breakfast. But, before he got any of that, he had to accomplish this first.

"Look Trevor," he began. "I've only been here a day and I can't believe how bad it is. It's uncomfortable, brutal, terrifying and I'm sure staying here much longer would kill me in a very short time. I am very impressed you've managed to survive for as long as you have. You're strong, Trev, hellishly strong but I don't think you've got it in you to last much longer here."

Trevor stared at him. He said nothing, he didn't nod or look away, he simply looked at John.

John cleared his throat. I heard you breathing last night, mate. You've got something in your lungs. Without an x-ray and some tests, I can't say for sure but it means you've got to get some real treatment if you'd like to be around much longer."

"You've got a solution for that, do ya?" Trevor asked evenly. John couldn't read him. He didn't appear angry or even excited. It must be a survival technique he'd perfected not to get his hopes up. For a man like Trevor, holding out hope for something was an easy way to die. He lived by his own wits, and he got by on what he provided for himself. John was going to have show Trevor a way he could extract himself from this prison without endangering himself.

"Look, bottom line is you will not last another year in here much less your full sentence. You're still a relatively young man. Hell, you're only a few years older than me. I can get you out now but there needs to be an exchange."

"An eye for an eye, so to speak?" Trevor answered him. "I give you what you want and I get to leave?"

"Yes. If you know why I'm here, then you know what I want in exchange for getting you out."

"I can't cross him, Doc," Trevor said and got off his bunk. "Moriarty or Moran, doesn't matter they are one and the same. If I give either of them up, I'd be dead the minute I got out."

Trevor made his wobbly way over to the corner and used o the chamber pot while John tried to look the other way. He remembered that he'd always felt at ease around Trevor. They had a relaxed way between them even when they served together. Trevor's betrayal two years ago had been a real punch to the gut for John and he'd never reconciled the trustworthy Trevor he'd served in the army with the man that had turned soulless mercenary. They used to be such good mates. He missed having real friends.

Suddenly, a memory resurfaced of him and Sherlock chasing the golem through the underground tunnels of London. They'd stopped to catch their breath after seeing his massive shadow and they'd locked eyes for a moment. Total trust and understanding flooded through them. John had his gun and Sherlock has his wits, and together they knew they could take the monstrous man. John could see perfect understanding written in the set of their shoulders, their quiet determination to get their man and their unfettered appreciation for one another. John couldn't remember really admiring anyone else as much as he admired Sherlock. They had been best mates, the best he'd ever had. He realized that he wanted that back. He wanted someone he could trust and be in perfect sync with. If only he could trust Sherlock ever again.

But before he could ever happen, he had to put his life back on course. The only way to do that was to get out from under Moriatry's reach. "I can offer you a suspended sentence for time served if you give us his location. You'd be out of here in a couple of days. I'm also authorized to offer you transportation to any country in the world except the UK. You've been given a lifetime ban from the United Kingdom but you can still go to Canada and Australia. Hell, you can even go to the states. I've been living there and I quite liked it."

"Lifetime ban," Trevor muttered under his breath absorbing that. He turned back to John. "I don't ever get to go back home?" he asked a little plaintively. "Guessed that for myself. But even so, that's quite generous, Doc."

"Trevor, look," John said getting the feeling he might be losing the man. "You'd be given 50,000 dollars to start over, and a new identity. You can get treatment. If your intel is good, you get to start over. We'll get to take down Moriarty's network and you'll get live your life free of being of either Moriarty's or Mycr…. Uh, you-know-who's shadow." John finished gamely. He fought the impulse to giggle at the Voldemort reference as he often thought of Mycroft as a dark, bloated menace the last few years.

"This is nothing," Trevor said beating his chest with a bravado John didn't believe at all. "I won't die of a cough…" and here Trevor laughed until he began coughing. He coughed so hard he bent nearly double. He finished finally but John noticed he put a hand up to his chest and his face looked full of pain. He managed a weak smile, "You were saying, Doc?"

"You sound like you've got an infection along with other issues. Trevor, even as a doctor, I can't do much without equipment and medicine here, but I can treat you on the outside. Hell, I'll be your personal physician if you give me the intel I need." And, John meant it. He'd make sure the man got what he needed to fight whatever he had going on in his lungs. He hoped it wasn't serious but he wouldn't know until he had access to medical equipment.

Trevor leaned near enough so that John could feel his warm, liquor soaked breath on his face and said, "I'll give it some thought. Until then, you're gonna have to enjoy a little more of St. Pete's hospitality. I'll let you know by sundown today what I'll do." He broke away and opened the cell door. Taking a deep breath, he marched out into the hallway with John following at his heels.

John hoped he could hold out another ten hours in his miserable place.


	10. Chapter 10

John followed Trevor back out to the courtyard only to be greeted by a few of the crew from yesterday lounging on the rough wooded chairs. Walt languished heavily across the table looking like death warmed over. Apparently someone had managed to bribe a guard to smuggle in two bottles of cheap whisky and most of Trevor's crew had spent the evening parting after John had drug their fearless leader off to his cell. Walt looked up blearily and dropped his head solidly back down on the table. "Nobody make noise," he mumbled menacingly. John felt decidedly better knowing Australian would be nursing a substantial hangover for most of the day. He'd be in no mood to bother John, he hoped.

"Sorry we didn't cut you in on the bottle, Doc," Trevor said looking a bit contrite. "But like the man said yesterday, you wanna drink, you gotta pay. You don't drink for free." Trevor called over his shoulder as he walked over to Walt's slouched form and shouted, "Get your ass over to McGowan's cell and check to see if he's still alive."

"Aww boss, get the Doc to do it. I'm dyyyy-ing," Walt said petulantly and John found he disliked the sound of a whining Australian even more than a lustful one.

Trevor grabbed a handful of his short, sandy tresses and pulled his head up. Walt's mouth just hung open in a slack-jawed stupor and Trevor let him drop back to the table top. "Useless git," he grumbled.

"Can you check on McGowan?" Trevor said turning back to John. "I'd rather not lose 'im to something stupid like a broken nose," John noticed that Trevor's demeanor changed subtly when he spoke to him. He asked rather than ordered him around like one of his men, interesting difference John thought.

"You patch him up and I'll think about your offer a little quicker, eh Doc?"

"Point the way," John said wearily. "But, I need an answer soon, Trev."

He nodded at John and gave him rather shaky directions to McGowan's cell. "I'll catch up with you tonight right here. I need to sort some things first," he said waving his hand vaguely in the air.

"Tonight," John said more forcefully than he intended stepping into the man's personal space and grabbing the front of Trevor's dust and grime covered shirt. "Don't let me down or the deal's off," John said with far more bravado than he felt.

Trevor's eyes widened a bit at John's intensity then he smiled blearily.

"All right, mate," he said plucking John's hands off his lapels and blinking slowly. Christ, the man was still pissed, John thought.

Trevor turned and meandered off in the direction of John and Walt's cell. He let out several barking coughs as he shambled away.

He sincerely hoped the idiot didn't disappear down some horrible prison rabbit hole, but he needed Trevor's goodwill and had to give the man some breathing room. If he followed too closely, Trevor would simply vanish and John knew he could hide a long time if he wanted to. Trevor had the home court advantage here and John was a stranger in a strange land.

The other men in the group seemed too absorbed in their own hangover pain to pay much attention to him. John's stomach growled loudly. "Know where I can score some grub? He asked the small gaggle of men who'd gathered around the table. One man grinned at him and said, "See Suzy," he pointed to one of the dark haired women sitting cross-legged in a patch of shade across the courtyard. "She'll set you up, but you.."

"Gotta pay, yeah I gathered that," John finished trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. "What does she want?"

"Suzy? She'll let you know what she'll take for food. She makes the best damn tortillas I've ever tasted, and she sometimes has fresh fruit, mangos and bananas.

John's mouth watered at the idea of real food. Christ, he felt like a mewling child after missing only a few meals. He eyed the woman covertly trying to gauge how difficult she might be and tried to rack his brains for something of value he could offer in trade. Other than his doctoring abilities, he didn't really have anything of value. Maybe his unused toothbrush or blanket might buy him a meal. He had no idea what might be a hot commodity in this place.

Before he tried that negotiation process, he decided to check on McGowan's broken nose. He decided to follow the directions he'd been given, and it lead him further down the same hallway where Trevor's cell had been. He heard a persistent moaning ahead that made him swallow in fear. Someone groaned in disconsolate pain with an abandon that only those mired deep in agony could manage. John hadn't heard moans like that in a long time, not since his tour in Afghanistan, and it sent a shiver down him. Enemy territory lay ahead and John had to be vigilant in this place and not get complacent. No one survived here unless they fought and came out on top.

But, despite the danger, his instinct to help kicked in and he wanted to follow the moaning. It didn't sound like McGowan, it sounded deeper. It sounded vaguely familiar. He couldn't exactly place why. Then the sound stopped almost as if someone had simply shut off the pain switch or…John didn't want to think of the many reasons why the man had stopped moaning…the man had passed out. He scurried forward trying to count the number of cell doors he passed. Trevor had said McGowan's cell was five down from his and to the left. There was no light in the dark hallway and every shadow hid possible danger.

He found the cell he wanted when he skidded to a stop (when had he started to run?) a little out of breath, heart beating fast. The door, closed but not locked, opened when John pushed on it. He saw a lump under some blankets and heard the distorted breathing of someone with a deviated septum. McGowan had slept fitfully under his single, scratchy blanket. He'd bled onto his covers during the night but not enough to cause alarm. John felt terrible waking him up but he couldn't check him out otherwise.

After examining McGowan, John reset his nose eliciting a horrible yelp from him in the process. He tried to compare it to the moaning he'd heard a moment ago. It didn't sound the same at all and he'd been asleep anyway.

The man needed an ice pack and painkillers, but he had neither to give so he offered some words of comfort and left poor ex solider to try to get back to sleep. What a nightmare world these men lived in where they drank to forget their misery that only lead to more misery. If this wasn't a version of actual hell on Earth, John didn't know what else it could be.

His stomach growled again and he decided to brave speaking to "Suzy." He had nothing better to do to keep himself occupied until sundown so he made his way back down the hallway. He stopped suddenly. The moaning had started up again softer and John could swear it sounded so familiar. The sound broke his heart and called to his inner healer. Who could be in such pain and where was it coming from? One of the closed cell doors he'd passed earlier now stood open and the noise that send a flood of compassion through him seemed to originate from the cell. One barred window had been taped over with yellowed newspapers keeping the cell dark, and cooler. John hesitated, hovered near the doorway and softly called, "Do you need help?"

A grunt answered him. "Do you need help?" he asked again a little louder. He wracked his brain trying to find the words in Spanish for "I'm trying to help" and could only remember a few from his secondary school, language classes. He whispered the words _ayuda_ and _sucorro_ hoping he made some kind of sense. The moaning had stopped and John could hear measured breathing, even and unlabored. Something felt off about this situation and John's senses told him the man in the room didn't sound injured or sick. He'd made a mistake stopping here. He should get back to the courtyard and leave this alone. His pulse throbbed in his head, his gut yammered at him to flee, but he held still and murmured, " _lo_ _siento_ ," and tried to back away from the door when a long, dark arm shot out and grabbed his wrist.

"John" a voice said. "Don't go. I need to speak with you, please."

Oh that voice, he'd recognized it even in the dark and it sent a thrill through him. That voice offered a lifeline in this miserable place, and John grasped on with both hands. He let out an half sob of relief, "Sherlock," he hissed trying to stay quiet even though his heart felt a rush of sudden gladness from hearing the voice of his former friend, his partner and smartest man he knew. Sherlock had used John's need to ease pain to lure him right where he wanted him.

Sherlock let go of John's wrist and stepped forward into the dim light of the hallway. John recognized the dark hoodie and quicksilver eyes gleaming from underneath it. Here stood the mysterious man from last night. Well, that explained the feeling of looking foul but feeling fair, he thought ruefully. His unresolved feelings for his former flat mate and best friend aside, he understood that Sherlock only wanted to be his ally in this moment.

"Come in," Sherlock said "We have much to discuss."

"Yeah," John said the unreality of having Sherlock here washing over him. His mind yammering one thought over and over, "He didn't have to do this alone! Sherlock would help him." It didn't occur to him to question Sherlock's presence. Of course the detective had tracked him here, knew what Mycroft's mission had been and involved himself in the whole thing, of course he had. But, for the first time in a long time, John felt only thankfulness for Sherlock's unwavering interest in his life. It just didn't matter anymore. He couldn't do this alone; he needed Sherlock's help. He nodded once, and pushed open the cell door entering the darkened room.


	11. Chapter 11

"Is this yours?" John asked wonderingly when he came into the squalid cell.

"Yes. I'm Shezza here, John. Like you, I made a deal to get myself locked in here for a brief time. Unlike you, I've been here almost five weeks."

"What?" John asked incredulously. "Sherlock, why?" Now that John's vision had adjusted, he could see the detective had done himself up in full prison disguise. He'd cropped his curls short which made his high forehead gleam in the dim light. He'd lined his eyes in black and had let his scratchy beard grow out along covering the lean lines of his face. Along with the black hoodie, he wore a dark pair of chinos and the prison issue boots. His skin looked blotchy and red, and his lips look chewed. He hoped to god the man hadn't been using. "You look terrible, Sherlock."

"I know," Sherlock smirked delightedly. "I've been letting myself go. Wanted to play the part of a drug dealer who sampled his own wares. But, I'm all right. Most of this is just for show," he said gesturing to his face and hair. "Nothing permanent and no, I'm not on anything. Just the appearance of it. I could see your brain whirring, wondering if I was," he said his eyes flashing a little indignantly.

"Shezza…" John said wonderingly pushing back a strong urge to giggle at the ridiculous name. John could hear Sherlock quickening like he did when he was revealing the solution to a case. John's heart speed up right along as it usually did when Sherlock brilliantly deduced all possibilities correctly.

"I happened to come to the same conclusion Mycroft did regarding Trevor's possible information but far earlier, and I knew he'd try to send an agent in to retrieve it. When I found out he was sending you, I tried to get in here first. I wanted to spare you having to come to this place." Sherlock looked tentatively at him. "You of all people deserve to have the life you want, John. I didn't see that before because I couldn't. I didn't know how."

"I know you've been following up on me, and right now, I'm actually glad you did." He knew he shouldn't be leading Sherlock on like this but he was so fucking glad to see him. Instead of solid dread washing over him at the thought of trying to finish this impossible mission, he now felt a tickle of excitement and hope. God, he missed that heady rush of danger and the thrill of solving the case with this impossible man. This was after all, still a case – the same old case they'd been trying to solve before Sherlock's suffocating possessiveness, and before Mycroft's exploding collar turned their once perfect friendship to shit.

"I never wanted you anywhere near here," Sherlock said suddenly unable to meet John's eyes. "It's abysmal, the very pit of human blackness. I only wanted to make things right between us."

"Shezza!" John said warningly. "This isn't a good time to discuss our past!" John stopped himself before he went any further.

"I know you came back to London for your mother, but I wanted to see you again," Sherlock pressed stepping closer. "I can help you now."

"God help me, I do want to hash things out with you later, and maybe we can work something out. But, right now, I – we need to work together to get Trevor to give us Moriarty. He's close but I don't know if he's ready to cave in."

Sherlock's eyes darted back up a bright flicker of hope sparking out from them. His whole face brightened and despite his desperate appearance, he began to look like his old self again. "Right, John. Case first, talk later."

"Shezza…Jesus Sherlock. I can't believe you've been here more than a month. Mycroft's been prepping me day and night for this place and I was still woefully unprepared. You waltz right in and manage to…what exactly?"

"I've managed to convince the right people that I've been put away for drug smuggling. I've managed to avoid being stabbed or other things… And, I knew enough about various cartels and heads of cartels that I convinced the inmates who essentially run the place that I was a man to be reckoned with. I got one of them to put me in the same block as Trevor. However, I can't seem to infiltrate his little group of cronies. They don't seem trust me at all. Yet, in a matter of twenty-four hours you've managed to get yourself included in their group and even spent the night in Trevor's cell."

John thought he detected a hint of jealously in Sherlock's voice when he mentioned his staying in Trevor's cell.

"I carried Trevor to his bunk after he nearly passed out on whisky, Shezzzza," John drawing out the ridiculous name. "I spent the night counting out his breaths to make sure he hadn't poisoned himself with booze. Trust me, I had an agonizing evening."

This seemed to appease Sherlock as he scanned John carefully trying to deduce the truth of that statement. He apparently found fidelity in John's face and he couldn't help but feel a little prickle of pride that he'd passed some kind of test. "We need a plan, Sherlock. I hope you've got something worked out because I'm afraid I don't have a lot of pull with Trevor. He's either going to buy into Mycroft's offer or stay here and dig his heels in. Either way, he's sick and he may not have a lot of time left unless he gets treatment."

"I know. I've been able to deduce an infection of the lungs compounded by possible emphysema, but you're the doctor, John," Sherlock said with a sad smile. "You've always been the healer."

"We just have to convince him it's in his best interests to…leave with us," John said giving his head a short, half shake. He felt himself falling right back into the old cadences so easily with Sherlock. John needed a clear, objective course of action. And, he needed not to fall into Sherlock's pull. He wanted to howl and rage against his own eager acceptance of this partnership that his whole soul missed so much. But, how could he erase all that had happened during the past two years so quickly? But, his heart knew Sherlock meant what he said. He wanted to make things right. John just had to believe.

"I may be able to help with that," Sherlock said and chuckled low. "You see, but you don't observe, John. Trevor's got a pressure point both you and Mycroft have missed, and I intend to exploit it."

John's brow furrowed at that. "What pressure point?"

"His daughter," Sherlock said leaning into speak right into John's ear. "I know where she is."


	12. Chapter 12

"I didn't know Trevor had a daughter," John said in wonder. I can't imagine he would slow down long enough to take up with anyone…I mean he doesn't seem the type to have ever settled down."

"I don't believe he did in a traditional sense. But here, you can have loved ones living right alongside you. You've seen the children playing in the dirt. Most of the women live here voluntarily. They stay with their husbands or boyfriends and raise their children together in this prison. Some men have the means to provide for their families inside these walls. Trevor happens to be one of them. I know where he keeps her and the baby," Sherlock explained stepping closer to John. "He doesn't let his men know he's got a child so he slides off to see her when he can get away."

"So, he got one of the local women pregnant and now he's doing the right thing by her?" John said reaching out to put a hand on Sherlock's chest. "Not too close, Sherlock," he said warningly. "I'm so glad to see you right now, you have no idea. But, we have to take this slow," he almost laughed at how eagerly the other man needed to be near him. He felt magnetized, Sherlock couldn't help but draw close to him.

"All right, John," Sherlock said easing back a bit. "I just want you to understand I will do anything to help you get Trevor's information. I want Moriarty dealt with as much as you do now. He's ruined too many years for both of us and I want to give you back your life. I owe that to you now," he cocked his head to one side as if listening. "John!" He said getting behind him and putting one large hand across his waist and pulled them both up against the wall. "Get in the shadow," he hissed in John's ear. They made it just in time to avoid being seen. One of the men must have noticed Sherlock's cell open so he nosed his face into opening curiously.

"That's Shezza's. He'll kill you! That creeper's got a nasty rep, man, stay outta there," the other man spoke in low tones pulling his fellow inmate away.

"He doesn't scare me," the first one said inching his body inside the door. "Nobody's home. Let's see what he's got hiding in here."

John held his breath and felt Sherlock do the same behind him. The entire length of him pressed into Sherlock's front. John closed his eyes. He felt Sherlock tap him once on the elbow, their old signal for a combined attack. John always struck low and Sherlock high. He readied himself.

"No, he's friends with Louie's gang. You don't wanna mess with Louie's friends," the other man said with a whine in his voice. John could only make out shadows but he saw one shadow tug at the shirtsleeve of the other.

"Leggo me," the first man said. "And fuck you, I ain't afraid of Louie either." But a second later both shadows retreated.

"Friends in high places," Sherlock murmured low in his ear and chuckled softly. "I solved a case for him and he owes me." Leave it to Sherlock to cultivate favors here. Thankfully, he'd never been keen on collecting for his services in a traditional manner. People all over London owed him favors, seems like some old habits died hard.

After the men left, John slumped in relief against the detective. He felt Sherlock's arm tighten for a second, then drop to his side. John turned to face him in the dark. Here, in a stinking prison cell, he felt real contrition from his former friend. He wanted so badly to believe him, to accept the apology and the understanding of what he had done wrong. If he could only let the barrier drop and really accept Sherlock's words at face value. Could he trust him? He had no doubt about him in the present moment. Sherlock would do anything to "solve the case" in front of them, John knew. But, could he depend on this newfound empathy to remain after they returned London?

Sherlock waited, glittering eyes still locked on John. Burning want still radiated from the man, but John could see it had been tempered and controlled. This was a turning point and they both knew it. It went beyond Sherlock's rescuing him in his present crisis and would carry forward into the future. Was this his Sherlock, his old friend standing in front of him now or the tattered remains of possessive, heart broken, entitled Sherlock? John didn't know just yet. Let them get out of this mess and he would see.

"Come with me. We can get into the block where he keeps his family safe. I'm sure he's there right now contemplating your offer to him," Sherlock said tugging him towards the door. "I believe, I can sweeten the pot. I can get all three of them out if he agrees."

"Really?" John asked stopping them both a moment. "Sherlock…that would be amazing."

"But, it's still you he trusts. He wouldn't accept it from me. I'm authorized to offer a new life for the woman and child as well. Mycroft won't even insist on a paternity test. He'll just grant it," Sherlock said peering out of his cell door to see if the corridor was now clear.

"My god, this is the answer to everything, Sherlock. Let's go." For the first time since he arrived, John felt hopeful. Sherlock left his cell and John fell into step behind the detective. It felt like home.


	13. Chapter 13

In the end, Trevor gave them what they wanted.

Sherlock escorted John through the maze of narrow corridors and dilapidated out-buildings to a guard shack where Sherlock pulled out a wad of cash and gave it to the guard. The guard handed him a flip phone with a lewd grin and shuffled off to give him some privacy to make a call.

"I'll get the particulars from Mycroft," Sherlock said. "We can have them out by tonight."

"Wait a minute," John stopped and stared at him. "Mycroft knows you're alive?"

"Yes, John. I went to see him before going undercover here. He rather uncharacteristically gave me a brotherly display of affection. Then, he promised me whatever assistance he could offer and tried to talk me out of coming here."

John narrowed his eyes, "He never said a word to me that he knew you were alive. I've known since the beginning, but I suspected he did not."

"He always has played his personal information close to the vest. And, you never told him I was alive. I always wondered why you never said a word," Sherlock said punching in a number on the phone and speaking to a voice on the other end.

Within minutes, he'd completed his call and looked smugly at John. He's agreed to provide passage for us, Trevor, his female friend and daughter. It's arranged, John," he said leading them back down a narrow passage and motioning for John to follow behind.

"The reason I never told...I wanted to put it all behind me, put you behind me," John said doggedly following and trying to keep up with Sherlock. "But I couldn't. I still felt some loyalty to you, Sherlock. God help me," John had wondered at why he'd kept Sherlock's secret. At the time, he'd decided to remain quiet because Sherlock had gone to such great lengths to stay hidden. "I must be an idiot…"

Sherlock turned abruptly and put one long arm out to halt John's progress. "You most are certainly not an idiot!"

"Sherlock," John breathed out as the lanky detective moved into his personal space, his face a mere inches away from John's own in the gloom of the foul smelling, prison corridor.

"You've managed to infiltrate Trevor's group in a matter of 48 hours. A job, I might add, I had not managed to do in over five weeks! He's going to give us what we want and it's down to you, John. All you. "

"You helped too," John retorted feeling a pulse in his chest at the obvious admiration behind Sherlock's words.

"And, thank you by the way, for not giving me away. I only wanted you know I wasn't dead," Sherlock continued.

"I'm...glad you're not dead, Sherlock," John managed looking down. "No matter what's passed between us, I'm glad you're in the world, and I'm glad you're here with me now."

"John," Sherlock said taking in a shaky breath. "I...know I don't deserve your forgiveness, but I want it more than anything else in the world. I want _this_ more than anything else in the world. You and I working together, being together in any capacity you will allow would mean more to me than you know."

"I do know, Sherlock," John replied. "I know because it means the world to me too. I've spent that past two years trying to convince myself that I could leave you behind and move on. But, I will never be able to do that. I know why you wanted me keep me safe. I know why you tried to do what you did with the collar and I do believe you've learned some empathy for me. But, let's get through this and back home. Then, we can maybe move forward."

"I won't let you down again, John," Sherlock said again and closed his eyes. "Thank you for that." Sherlock turned and resumed his breakneck speed through Saint Peter's prison.

Sherlock let them to a small courtyard of the prison tucked away behind the pathetic excuse for an infirmary. Here John observed Trevor's family, his baby daughter and the woman who bore her, in quiet consultation. The small, domestic scene moved John so much, he hadn't wanted to break it up. He and Sherlock briefly argued about whether or not "Shezza" should accompany him to confront Trevor but John didn't think the ex-solider would like it. He made Sherlock hang back until he could give Trevor the new information.

As John watched the trio, he saw real tenderness in his old Army buddy toward both the mother and child. He kissed both their heads and held them close. John's memory flashed back to his own recent experience with Tara and Tommy and his heart gave a regretful pang. He hoped they both were doing well in Albuquerque.

He could wait no longer and stepped into Trevor's sight. The man gave a small jump and only relaxed a little when John put both hands into the air and grinned his most disarming smile. "I've got some news," John began. "I wanted to come tell you in person."

"Stop," Trevor said evenly. "You can tell me from there."

"Can she understand me?" John asked nodding to the woman holding the infant. She had shoulder length, curly, dark hair and quite a pretty face. She nodded and turned her face away to shyly nuzzle into her baby.

"What do you want to say to her?" Trevor nearly growled.

"I have some news, Trev. It's good news. I've been updated since this morning and I'm authorized to tell you we can get all three of you out."

The woman's head snapped up at this. Then, she began to speak to Trevor in a rapid flood of Spanish. He answered her with curt nods. Finally, he had to place both hands on her shoulders in order to settle her down. John had no idea what had upset the woman. He'd have thought she'd be thrilled to follow Trevor out of this place. It seemed he'd stirred up quite a hornet's nest with his news.

After he'd calmed the woman down, Trevor approached John with his head bowed and his hands stuffed into the pockets of his chinos. "Anna's got another son. He's fourteen and part of a powerful gang in here. She doesn't want to leave him."

"Trevor," John began but didn't get far.

"I'll convince her. I don't want my daughter raised in this place and we can help Antonio, her son, from the outside. He won't leave here now without his… new friends but we can make sure he's got what he needs to survive from the outside. I'll get her to see reason."

John closed his eyes in relief. "I think you're making the right choice."

"I think I'm making the only choice, Doc. I'll tell you what you want to know…."

The retrieval went smoother than John hoped or thought it would. Mycroft pulled some strings on his end and the warden himself escorted them out into a holding area. They separated Trevor from his family and took him into a private room. John worried fretfully until Sherlock came to stand behind him.

"Mycroft will keep his word. Trevor and his family will be relocated," Sherlock said, "You'll get to patch him up, John. If he's got any hope at all at a family life somewhere, it'll be because of you."

That made John feel better. If his own hopes for a family, a son and a wife had never played out, at least there might be hope that Trevor and his family might succeed. Irony aside, John wished the man well. He only hoped Mycroft could bury him somewhere safely away from Moriarty and Moran.


	14. Chapter 14

"Sherlock can you speak up?" John shouted into his cell phone. "Sherlock, I've… I can't hear you." John growled in frustration. His cell phone crackled in his ear as he paced around his mother's living room. He hated being out of the loop like this. Both Mycroft and Sherlock, acting in complete agreement for once in their fraternal lives, had demanded John's part in this mission be terminated and he return home.

Sherlock had put him on a plane back to London and gone in search of Moriarty's hideout with some of Mycroft's men. Now John was reduced to waiting for the little scraps of news Sherlock could give him when he sporadically called in. It still surprised John that they'd fallen back in together so easily. Sherlock still treated him as if he were afraid he'd bolt off again. But, John had seen the change in him.

They'd been able to spend one evening together at the hotel before the next stage in the great game. Sherlock had insisted on taking him to dinner where he'd eaten a surprising amount, never having been able to score any real food from the locals in the prison. After eating his fill, he'd felt some of his old confidence return. He hadn't realized just how badly it had been shaken while he'd been at St. Petes.

Sherlock had found a razor and taken a shower. He resembled his old self and had even managed to procure a suit, jacket and button up shirt, the bastard. John still had on his prison garb that had garnered some stares in his direction, but decided he didn't care. In the dim lighting of the restaurant, Sherlock looked like his old self, the one John remembered when they were best friends, and he felt some tight cord in his chest he'd been holding onto for years finally loosen. They'd closed the place down over a bottle of wine and a conversation that touched on everything they'd missed in each other's lives since their separation. They didn't discuss the collar, or Mycroft or why Sherlock had done any of it. They simply talked, and by the end of the evening, the wicked cord finally gave way with a last gentle tug. John didn't know what that meant for the both of them.

Sherlock paid the check and wished John a good evening. John had plodded up to his room and slept like the dead until late the next morning. He'd been awake only a few minutes when he heard a knock and Sherlock entered his room, eyes downcast. "I have to leave in a few hours. I'll drive you to the airport. You're going home."

John had allowed it. He'd felt hurt, but he knew it was once again out of his hands. And, as promised, upon his return to London, Mycroft had pardoned him. To John's surprise, his bank account, fattened and healthier than it had ever been in his life, reflected Mycroft's promised reward. However, money held little appeal just now. He honestly felt he'd abandoned his _friend_ to enter the dragon's den alone.

It wasn't fair that John's life had resumed right where he'd left it. His mother once again met him at London, Heathrow, worried and upset at his sudden disappearance, and gave him a fierce lecture upon his return. But, she welcomed him back with quiet sobs and hugs.

Unfortunately John had been riding on the tube when Sherlock had tried to reach him earlier that day and he'd seen the blinking message icon when he'd resurfaced.

The message Sherlock left him had left John anxious and worried. "John, I'm in Sydney. We've tracked Moran and James to a little village in the Outback called Darwin. He's got a modern compound somewhere near there, very far away from prying eyes where he's been recovering from his unfortunate injuries." John had closed his eyes and run a hand through his closely cropped hair at that memory. "Mycroft won't let me be on the team raiding the compound. He's making me wait here in Sydney, John." John could hear the frustration in the detective's voice. "I have to be there. I need to make sure they catch him…both of them… I'll call back later tonight when I've got more intel." And, then he'd rung off leaving John wondering what might be happening at that moment.

Trevor's information proved accurate and he'd revealed that Walt, John's Australian mule of a roommate had been the key all along. Walt was Moriarty's inside man, working diligently with Trevor to provide information and key insider trade secrets from the gangs working from St. Pete's. While both men had been captured, tried and sentenced for actual criminal, mercenary acts, they still managed to work with outside influences to make sure Moriarty's drug business ran as usual. After Trevor revelations, Mycroft worked on Walt until he got what he wanted, Moriarty's current location. No doubt, the blonde Aussie would find himself in solitary confinement until the master criminal met his fate. Again, John couldn't muster up much sympathy for the man.

He'd busied himself for the rest of the day keeping his phone close by in case Sherlock called with news. He'd finally heard the trill of his phone. "John….can't talk long….." Sherlock sounded anxious. "You must get to safe house…. Mycroft sending over men to get you …..Mother out of London….John, he knows you're back and he's…."Then, the line when dead and John swore.

"Mum!" John shouted into the kitchen where his mother had her hands deep in a pie crust. "We have to leave the house now!"

The only thing he got from Sherlock's message was he and his mum were in danger.

"What are you on about?" she asked in confusion. I've got potatoes cooking and I can't leave dinner." She looked up at him wide-eyed and trusting.

"C'mon, Mum. No time. Here's a towel…" Something indistinct in John's gut told him to move quickly. "Leave it. Turn off the stove, yeah. Here's your purse and coat." John snagged his mother's handbag off the little table where she kept it and put his and her coats over his arm. The weather had turned cool that morning. He'd felt so relieved coming back to his mother's house after being in that prison. He'd honestly thought the worst part behind him now. Sherlock was in the line of direct fire, not him. He should be able to breathe easy now, but he hadn't been able to relax since returning. He knew the snake would strike and soon. It was just a matter of time.

However, all he could think of at that moment was he didn't want his Mum to be cold as they fled her home and the comfortable neighborhood where he'd grown up. Running away always hurt, John knew, but sometimes it kept you alive.

He'd just managed to tug his flummoxed mother into her coat and had decided to leave out the back door when he saw a dark shape loom up from the small window next to the back door. He hit the deadbolt just as a hard thud resonated against the wooden door. "Shit," he swore. He dithered a moment trying to decide what to do. He had no idea how many there were or where Mycroft's men were.

His mother gave a small whimper of fear. John put his finger to his lips and guided her toward the front of the house. They moved quietly forward into the living room until John heard the sound he most dreaded in the world, the bolt of a gun being pulled back. He stopped them both and put up his hands.

"Stay still, Watson!"

The front door now stood open and a large man with dark, fierce eyes blocked their escape.

John clutched his mother close. "Don't worry, Mum. He won't hurt us," John said, keeping his voice steady for the sake of the woman standing next to him. He'd do his best to get her out of this unharmed, but the look in this man's eye, Moran surely, told him he may have reached the end of his existence, finally.

"What do you want, Moran?" John managed to ask.

"Ah, you know who I am. Good, we can get down to business, then. You sit," he said pointing the business end of his pistol at his mother. John felt his gut twist at that sight and he involuntarily snarled in response. If he got the chance, he'd make him pay for that…

"You, come with me, Watson," Moran now pointed his weapon directly at his chest.

"Where are we going?" John asked doing his best to keep a seething rage from bubbling out and getting them both killed.

Smiled in a rather disarming manner and said, "If you come along quietly, I'll take you to an old friend who'd like catch up."

Breathing out a sigh of relief at the idea of taking this somewhere else, somewhere away from the grey-haired woman sitting on the sofa of her living room quaking in fear for her only son, John nodded once. "So, just me. Not her?"

"Ask another question and I'll shoot her," Moran said dropping the smile. "Let's go! We've got someone to see."

John took the required steps forward that would propel him away from his mother, taking her, he hoped, out of danger. Unfortunately every step put him right back into it, right back into the well-deep, hot tar mess of once again fearing for his life, his liberty and his loved ones. Moran, just another thug holding a gun to his temple and ordering him around, stood there secure, arrogantly sure John would comply. John clenched his hands together and decided, he'd had enough. He. Would. Not.

"No!" he said and without worrying, planning or even thinking, he brought both fists down into Moran's elbow as hard as he could. The gun went off firing a shot harmlessly into the ceiling causing a small shower of plaster dust to fall into Moran's face. But, John knew these things would happen and the combat training that had saved his life in the Army helped him to bring his knee up into Moran's crotch. John's fists drove into the base of the man's skull and he finally crumpled into a miserable ball at John's feet.

"John," his mother whispered in the gawping silence that followed. "That was amazing!"

He kicked at Moran's side to make sure the man was out before snatching the gun from his lifeless hand and then ran to pull his mother off the couch. "Let's go, now," he ordered her. "I don't know if he was alone."

She spared only one glance at the crumpled man on her floor and followed her son out the front door.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

John knew of at least three safe houses in the greater London area when he'd last worked with Sherlock, but he had no idea if they were still valid. He didn't dare waste time trying to find out if they would take them in. He might try finding a hotel somewhere, but he didn't trust such an easily available area. So, ended up calling the one person he knew he could count on to deliver him from his immediate mess even though it galled him to do so. Mycroft Holmes. He had to get his mother somewhere safe.

He'd ushered his mother out the front door with barely a glance at the man he'd left mangled and bruised. He'd only knocked Moran out, he knew, and he'd wake soon enough. They had to be gone long before that. John texted Mycroft's number with one hand and pushed his mother into the front seat of her aging sedan with the other. He hopped into the front seat hoping there was enough petrol in the car she kept in the small, attached garage of her house to get them away safely.

His mother rarely drove it these days, opting instead to take public transportation. The keys hung by the door where they'd been since his father had last driven the beast, as they called it. He hoped to god it still ran. He turned the engine over and it coughed, spluttered and caught. The gas gauge showed half a tank. Thank heaven for small mercies, he thought and actually grinned at his mother. She stared back stoically and said, "You'd better get going, son."

After he'd driven a few miles in random directions, he pulled into a small shopping center and looked at his phone. Mycroft had returned his urgent message with a short message and an address. John punched the address into his smart phone and began weaving his way through London traffic. While the calm, cultured voice of an electronic woman began giving him directions to the safe house, John thought over Mycroft's message: Safe house on Portland Street available. Marble wainscoting. It was a code word he and Sherlock had devised to assure the other that the message from another person was valid and true. The Holmes brothers were working together again and John wasn't sure if that were a good or bad thing. But, at least he could trust that he'd be safe at the Portland Street house.

They arrived in front of a modest two story Tudor style home in West Croydon. John's first urge was to ask his mother to wait in the car while he checked the place out first. But, moments after he arrived, a black sedan pulled in behind him and a slim, dark haired woman got out. John couldn't believe Mycroft would send his personal assistant, "Anthea" to greet him. He'd never actually discovered her real name so he'd just kept calling her that in his head. She came up to the driver's side window and assured him the house had been checked and was considered safe. She pointed a remote control at a garage sitting next to the house and the door raised. John drove the car into it and cut the engine.

After getting his mother settled in with a cup of tea and some very tasty biscuits, he sat down with Anthea at the kitchen table to discuss the situation.

"We retrieved Moran from your mother's house, John. He'd managed to crawl to the front door, but we intercepted him before he got out. You really brained him," she said with more than a little admiration in her voice. "He outweighs by a considerable amount and he's got black ops training. He's in a security hospital under heavy guard. He apparently acted of his own accord in trying to take you."

"What was he trying to do?" John asked, worry still buzzing through him.

"He wanted leverage, John. You are all Sherlock cares about in this world now," Anthea said placing one slender, white hand over one of his.

At one time, a gesture like that from a woman as beautiful as Anthea would have given John a shiver of desire, but her touch only spoke of friendship and empathy. He felt nothing more for her than gratefulness. John smiled a lopsided grin at her and ducked his head.

"Mycroft is infinitely sorry," she continued, and when she looked up at him there were tears in her beautiful, brown eyes. "You weren't around after…After he thought he'd lost Sherlock. He deflated into a shell of himself. He stopped eating, sleeping and working. We'd thought we'd lost him too for a while. When Sherlock died, he'd lost the only person in the world he cared for. He felt he'd let him down, _both_ of you down, you see. He took all the blame on himself. He still does, John."

John had honestly been so wrapped up in his own feelings and problems during his ordeals, he'd only spared a thought or two for Sherlock's older brother. "At the time, I felt he deserved what he got after he cornered me at that club of his. The collar…" John began feeling the old resentments and anger welling up again.

"Was a mistake," Anthea said evenly, gripping his hand in her own. Only a select few of us knew about the collar, John. I want you to know, none of us agreed with its use on you. Mycroft kept assuring us he'd never actually blow the device, but he needed insurance that you'd stay with Sherlock and keep him motivated to track down Moriarty."

John nodded. It felt good to hear her say it aloud. He went a long way toward helping John forgive the Holmes brothers. He knew if he could forgive, he might find his way back to a solid life here in London. Only the sands of time could wash away all the fury, and feelings of helplessness he'd felt over the past few years. He found the more he tried to run away or bury the past he'd had with Sherlock, the more it clawed its way back to haunt him. He needed to resolve things with the detective. He had to try.

"I would have stayed with him," John said softly. "I know that now. For all my talk of moving out, I would have always been there for him. But, we'll never know now, will we?"

"We know. Mycroft and I know what you're made of, John. Sherlock has always known, but we should have treated you better. And, for what it's worth, he's sorry."

"Who?" John asked.

"Both of them," Anthea answered. She smiled finally, took a tissue out of her briefcase, and wiped her eyes.

For the first time since this began, John felt contrition from someone about his treatment. It may have come from the wrong person, but it felt good all the same. He squeezed the hand she held over his and cleared his throat. What do we do now?" he asked. "I can't just hide here with my Mum."

"Both of them have given me orders to keep you here until we get the results of today's raid."

"How did it go today in Australia?" John asked. The results of the raid had been bubbling in the back of his brain. So far, no one had mentioned how it had gone.

"We don't have any reports yet," she said biting her bottom lip. "The compound proved to be very well protected. We had some trouble infiltrating it and lost several men and women."

"Sherlock?" John asked.

"He stayed put in Sydney. The team broke in, and they found one vehicle had managed to escape to a nearby river. Whoever it was, drove an SUV to a boat and used it to evade capture. Mycroft is sure it was Moriarty and two of his men."

John huffed out a breath. "Is Sherlock safe?"

"We don't know," Anthea admitted finally. "He made contact about an hour ago from his hotel room. Mycroft informed him of your attack, and he provided the code word we used. But, we've since lost contact with him."

John stood suddenly. "Why are we here? Let's get to Sydney!" Another itch developed deep in his chest. His intuition screamed there was something wrong on Sherlock's end of things.

"You've changed your tune, John," Anthea said smiling. "You want to help find him?"

"I will find him," John said resolutely. Each passing second magnified the sensation that something was dreadfully wrong. "I should have been there with him in the first place."

"We'll get you on a flight to Sydney, John."


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Sherlock fumed as he paced in his small hotel room. Mycroft's team had left over two hours ago to begin the raid on Moriarty's compound. They were under strict orders not to allow Sherlock to accompany them. Sherlock had helped organize the strike and even, to some extent, helped plan for any possible outcomes. The intel provided by Trevor held up, and satellite photos confirmed most of what he'd said. The area seemed innocuous enough that even the locals did not suspect what lurked beneath the surface. Most of the compound loomed several stories underground with only a few lopsided outbuildings to mark entrances.

A river ran nearby large and swift enough to carry watercraft. Satellite photos showed no boats perched on the waterway and so Sherlock had ruled that option out as a possible escape route. Stupid, he thought now. Preliminary reports had come back to him that the raid had surprised those inside the compound. A small army of men had come streaming out to engage with Mycroft's team only to succumb immediately to the superior firepower. One of the pitifully armed men surrendered a key card pass that allowed the team to sweep inside and finish subduing the remainder of the guards inside.

The only real surprise came while Sherlock waited impatiently to hear the results of the raid. Anthea had called him on his phone to ask about a safe word John might recognize. She'd filled him in on the attack, and he seethed at the thought of hulking Moran trying to put his hands on John. He'd relaxed a bit when Anthea let him know John had taken care of the man who'd come to abduct him and John's mother from her home and he'd actually reached out to ask about a safe house. But, he couldn't worry about John right now, not when they were on the verge of finally capturing Moriarty for good.

They'd left Sherlock with the base radio so he could monitor communications from his room. He'd sat like a gargoyle, hunched over the radio listening intently to every command. One of the sergeants, O'Brian he remembered, had been assigned to relay info back to him about the operation. He'd dutifully done his job, and Sherlock knew the moment they'd arrived and begun their attack. O'Brian, in a lilting Irish accent, described the brief skirmish, the quick surrender and the ultimate invasion of the underground facility. "Too easy," murmured Sherlock. "The whole thing had been too easy." James had let them take the place. While the team had focused on taking down Moriarty's forces, the evil genius had made his escape. He must pay his men extraordinarily well to instill such devotion. The men sacrificed themselves so their master could escape.

Sherlock knew he had no time to waste in cursing the ineptitude of Mycroft's team. They had done their job admirably, in fact. No secret lair could be complete without an ingenious, escape plan. While there had been no visible boat moored along the banks of the river, it didn't mean James didn't have an alternate plan for using the nearby river. There had been a lightweight boat deftly hidden in a cliff cave that ran near the river. Mycroft's men had found an escape tunnel, crude but effective, that lead right to the shores of the river. A boat had been pushed out of the cave to drop into the water below. Clever, as usual. Of course, the spider would have a way to evade capture. It was what he did, wasn't it?

Think, he told himself. Where will he go? The logical course would be upriver to Sydney. It made sense. The men had heard a high-powered speedboat take off. They'd tried shooting at it to no avail. Moriarty had slipped their grip, again. Of course they'd radioed ahead and set up a net to catch the man upriver, the last reports he'd received was a standoff with who they suspected was Moriarty and one of his loyal supporters who held them at bay with high powered rifles. But, Sherlock knew they wouldn't find his old enemy inside the speedboat when they finally subdued the sniper and his captain. Moriarty had used the speedboat as a diversion and had slipped into a small, wooden canoe and paddled off downriver from his compound without even raising an alarm.

Sherlock knew the river eventually ended up at the sea in a small, well-maintained, private marina. He traced the river's course on a map of the area the group had been using a red pen. He circled the marina and mumbled, "Got you!" to the empty hotel room.

Sherlock was sure Moriarty kept a private yacht there. Mycroft's team was looking in the wrong direction while the man they'd been trying to catch for years once again slipped their net. Ingenious really, Sherlock thought. But, not clever enough.


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock moved quickly after that. He used on an old client currently located in Sydney to obtain the use of a helicopter and pilot. He waited on the rooftop of a nearby hotel that had a helipad for a man named Albert Finney to pick him up. He solved a case for Albert almost ten years ago. The wind had picked in as a brooding storm threatened on the horizon. The clouds looked angry and full of rain. He drummed his fingers nervously as scanned the horizon. The direction they would be flying in still seemed clear enough. He hoped they could outrun the oncoming mess. If they could just get there, Albert could wait out the cloudburst on the ground and head back home when it cleared. Hard, wicked squalls were common in this area. They often arrived and spent themselves quickly. But, Sherlock simply didn't have time to wait around for better weather.

He didn't wait long. Fortunately, Albert was based in Sydney and had picked up his phone on the first ring. He'd dropped everything and come immediately to help the detective. Karma, it seemed, smiled on him this day.

"Sherlock!" he'd shouted grinning wide at him from the pilot's seat. "It's good to see you, but get in, mate. I'm not authorized to land here," Albert said in a thick Aussie dialect.

Sherlock scrambled into the passenger seat ducking his tall frame to avoid the whirling blades of the small chopper. Sherlock noted Albert brought his personal favorite, a 1971 Schweitzer, possibly a 269 B? No, a "C" model, Sherlock verified as he buckled his seatbelt. And avid collector, Albert had an extensive collection of helicopters and small planes he used for a thriving tourist business. Sherlock had helped him avoid an extensive prison sentence for being accused of smuggling drugs. His business had been targeted by a vicious cartel. They had come to him hoping to use his business to convey their products, but he'd turned them down. The leader of the smuggling ring had paid Albert back by implicating him to the police as an accomplice to get his sentence shortened once he'd inevitably been caught himself.

Sherlock not only got Albert off the charge but managed to bring down the entire smuggling ring in the process. He hadn't charged Albert a penny at the time, the case had been intriguing enough to act as its own payment, but Albert told him he'd owe him any favor in his power to grant in the future.

Sherlock smiled in genuine pleasure at the short, balding Albert who looked a little thinner and just a bit more wrinkled than the last time he'd seen him. "Thank you for picking me up," Sherlock shouted over the propeller.

"Where we going, mate?"

Sherlock pulled out an aerial map and pointed to the location he wanted to go. "Get me as close to that Marina as you can," he said.

Albert nodded curtly. He eyed the oncoming storm a moment and said, "It'll be a close call, but I got ya, mate. There's a small field nearby that'll work for a landing. I assume you don't want to be seen comin' in?"

"Precisely," Sherlock responded.

Albert nodded again, and they took off from the roof. They stayed just ahead of the thunderclouds. "It's a big storm," Albert told him on the trip. "It's gonna play havoc with any ships or boats going out today."

Sherlock's hopes rose. Maybe Moriarty wouldn't risk leaving the harbor yet. He hoped not. He pulled out his phone and texted John what he'd found out so far. He didn't want to worry his friend about Moriarty's escape, so he'd refrained from calling directly. He didn't want John to try to talk him out of this. He did, however, send the coordinates of the Marina to John. He thought about telling Mycroft of his plans but decided he'd just be pushed out again if he did so left it.

They arrived twenty-five minutes later, and Sherlock had thanked Albert. The man shut off his helicopter and planned to wait out the oncoming storm. Sherlock took his leave and crept his way to the Marina. There were two dozen yachts moored in the small bay all in various states of repair. One, in particular, caught Sherlock's eye. On the outside, it looked rusted, disused and even unseaworthy, but upon closer inspection, Sherlock could see this was an expensive boat meant to only look forlorn and neglected. He reckoned that underneath its "disguise" this little yacht was decked out luxuriously and well stocked for an extensive trip.

The storm clouds arrived just as the sun set and bright, fat drops pelted down on Sherlock's head as he crouched behind an unpleasant smelling, seafood restaurant near the pier. He absently reached up for the lapels of his Belstaff only to realize it wasn't there. Back at base, he'd shrugged into a utilitarian, military issue jacket. Thankfully, it had a plastic hood tucked into a zippered pocket in the collar. He pulled it out and placed it over his head just as the rain poured down in earnest. After a few minutes, the wind drove the rain almost sideways and a warning bell began tolling in the distance. The boats in the bay began rocking as the waves surged. A little overhang and a skip provided some shelter for him as he weathered the squall. He hoped that as long as the rain lasted, his quarry wouldn't untether from the safety of the marina. So far, the windows of the yacht remained dark. Sherlock decided he might use the cover of the storm to creep closer and made his way onto the pier. He shoved his hands into his pockets and strolled as purposefully as possible to where his chosen boat bobbed in the water. If he looked like he belonged, he shouldn't stand out too much to the casual observer. But, he wasn't stupid enough to believe Moriarty was a casual observer.

A quick blossom of light flared right over his head followed by darkly growling thunder. The two happened almost simultaneously producing a sense of urgency for him to get under cover. He could be struck by a bolt, and wouldn't that be an ironic ending to Sherlock Holmes, he thought with a small grunt of laughter. But, he couldn't let John Watson down again. Moriarty had to be eliminated once and for all or neither one of them would ever be safe again.

During the next loud thunderclap, he let himself lean over the railing and slip aboard. Moriarty's yacht, he thought as he slithered from shadow to shadow, seemed abandoned. He knew better. The door to below decks had been opened recently, possible within the past half-hour. If he couldn't take the spider down tonight, would John ever know what had become of him? Moriarty would surely torture him, kill him and then finish John. He crouched next to the door and tried the handle. Locked, of course. He'd been issued a standard handgun, but had slipped a few items into his pockets he thought might be useful. One of them had been a basic lock picking kit. He used it now and heard a sharp snap as the lock clicked open. No alarm. Or, no alarm he could hear. Sherlock opened the door and crept into a darkened stairwell that descended into a midnight black hallway. The whole boat looked dead and lifeless. Sherlock took a deep breath and entered.


	18. Chapter 18

John woke after a fitful sleep. He'd just spent the past fifteen hours aboard a military, personal aircraft. They were not known for their comfort, but this one did have excellent leg room and only a few other soldiers traveling along with him. They'd made good time and landed at the Sydney airport.

A uniformed solider, a mere corporal John thought with a huff, informed him he'd have to remain out of harm's way at the mission base or a hotel. Like his detective friend, John chaffed at being told to "wait in the wings" to see what Mycroft's people could find about how Moriarty slipped the net.

Sherlock's last text finally made it through after John landed and had been allowed to turn his phone back on. He'd only left a cryptic message and some coordinates for John to follow. He'd waged a personal war inside himself at Sherlock's request not to tell Mycroft where he was. He wanted to handle Moriarty himself, no doubt. John knew how much Sherlock hated not being allowed to be part of the raid. Who knows, if he'd been there, Moriarty might not have slipped away. The pair of them, inexorably linked to one another, thought alike; they intuitively knew what the other might do. The pair of them an uncanny duo , John thought.

He'd kept the intel to himself as Sherlock had asked him to, but it wrangled hard on his nerves to keep this from Mycroft's people. Sherlock informed him he wasn't in any danger, but if he didn't act swiftly, they lose the monster yet again. John's anger hadn't dissipated since Moran's attempt to kidnap him at his mother's house. He wanted nothing more than to rip through all the posturing and protectiveness he'd had to deal with since being back and go after the man himself.

Upon landing, he texted Sherlock back asking for an update. He'd gotten no response, and that sent a chill of worry through him. He'd been given clearance and some privileges, but it took another hour to secure a vehicle. The officer in charge simply agreed to John's request and signed him over a nondescript SUV no questions asked. "Stay within a few miles of base," they'd said and let him go on his way. John wasn't a fool, he knew they were tracking his every move, but right now, he didn't care. Sherlock was in danger, and he needed to be there to back him up. Something in his gut told John the end game approached, and either Sherlock or Moriarty would meet their end this time. He told one of the officers he wanted to go a restaurant to get some dinner, and left.

The drive took over two hours. His GPS system on his phone blipped letting him know he'd arrived very near the coordinates. Sherlock had sent one final text that had simply said, "Big storm coming in. I've found his yacht. Keeping watch."

John cut the engine and left the vehicle in the very same field Sherlock had landed in earlier. John walked the quarter mile to the Marina's dock trying to glance over the available boats. Sherlock's storm had spent itself a few hours ago. The officials had been allowing boats to cast off all morning. John headed to a small office where he hoped to find out which boats might have left since yesterday.

His new credentials allowed him expediency in getting the marina's officials to cooperate. Only two craft had left that morning, both fishing boats, and neither fit the description of Moriarty's yacht. He had to locate Sherlock and find out what he'd learned. John arrival coincided with a local ferry that had just unloaded a group of 100 or so passengers disembarking onto the pier. The colorful group of locals and tourists provided excellent cover for John to move along the boardwalk unnoticed and check out the moored boats.

There it was. When John spotted it, he knew it couldn't be any other. The small, unkempt yacht tried its best to hide its true nature, but when John observed, really observed as Sherlock had taught him all those years ago, it stood out from the others. "Obvious," he heard Sherlock's deep voice say in his mind, and he grinned. The last of the ferry's passengers moved in a final clump toward him, and John prepared to use the group as cover to get closer to the boat, and find a way on board unseen. Before he could maneuver closer, he felt the unmistakable barrel of a gun press into his ribs.

"You've come, Dr. Watson, as expected," a deep voice said while the unmistakable firmness of a man's chest pressed into him from behind. John froze, his mind trying to run through every possible way he could disarm the man with the gun without losing his life when he heard the click of a bolt being drawn back. "I wouldn't," the voice said again. "I've got a silencer, and I'll do you right here if you try anything. Walk to the boat. You know the one. There's a door to the deck there. It's unlocked. Don't turn around," the man said directly in his ear. John didn't know the voice. It had an odd mix of Australian and English as though the owner had split his time equally between the two countries and had blended both accents. The man sounded older, mid-fifties, if John could be the judge of such things.

"Open it!" he said an arm appearing over his left shoulder to point to the door that led below decks. John heard a hint of gruff command in the voice now that they were away from the general public.

John did. He encountered the same black stairwell and hallway that Sherlock had crept down the day before. The man produced an electric torch and shown a beam to illuminate their progress.

"No light?" John asked amicably.

For an answer, John felt a rough push from the man and almost lost his footing on the narrow staircase. He used a hand to steady himself as he continued downward and thought about how he could get out of this. Perhaps he could push an elbow into his abductor's belly or even lower…

The gun pressed into the base of his skull erasing all such thoughts. A better class of criminal, John thought ruefully, as one of Sherlock's complaints about the lowlifes they'd chased through London ran through his mind. He'd lucked out and been captured by a man knew how to handle a prisoner, and wouldn't be easily tricked.

He stopped at the door at the end of the stairs that led into the living quarters of the yacht below. A keypad glimmered next to the handle. "Six-six-two-one-two," the man barked at him, and John understood it was the code to open the door. The system, while outdated, still functioned admirably and John punched in the numbers. He heard a whoosh as the door unlocked.

The man behind pushed roughly at this shoulder, and John pulled the heavy door open. It all ended here, he thought grimly. Whatever hid behind door number two, John believed, would be the end of this horrible, two-year ordeal. Sherlock, Moriarty, this mystery man, and John Watson would resolve things tonight or die in the process. He felt sure of it.


	19. Chapter 19

**John stepped through the door feeling the press of the man's pistol vanish for a moment only to reappear between his shoulder blades. "Move quickly, Dr. Watson. Your friends await you."**

 **"I'm not entirely sure they're my friends," John said before he could stop himself.**

 **The man behind him grunted in surprised amusement and John felt a little heartened by the sound. His abductor couldn't be all bad if he could find something in this situation humorous. But the instant passed quickly when John saw the scene laid out before him in the ship's small lounge. Two men sat on opposite sides of the room in wooden armchairs. The ship's furniture tended toward the utilitarian rather than the opulent, and both men were lashed tightly to their respective chairs. Moriarty, it seemed, warranted a garrote-style collar tying this neck to the back of the chair to limit movement as well as cause no small amount of uncomfortableness. John wasn't sure the man would be able to draw a proper breath in that position and in fact, and when John looked a bit closer, he noticed with a doctor's alarm that Moriarty's lips had a blue tinge around them. He'd already suffered some asphyxiation. His eyes had a glassy stare to them as he drew in tight, constricted breaths.**

 **John noted with some relief that Sherlock had escaped a similar fate and only seemed to have his feet, arms, and wrists tied firmly to the chair. Both chairs had been affixed to stout pillars on opposite sides of the room. John was surprised to see Sherlock still tied up as he was very skilled at getting out of his bounds. But, then he saw the complex and expertly tied knots and decided his captor not only knew how to handle a prisoner but know how to keep one captive as well.**

 **"I've been waiting all day for you, Doctor," said the man. "Your partner, of course, didn't tell me you'd be on your way. But I sussed it out of him." The man waved his pistol at the bound form of Moriarty.**

 **John had stumbled into the middle of something intense, and he wasn't sure exactly what to expect from the man holding the gun. "You know my name, but you have me at a disadvantage,"**

 **"I'm Wells," he said shortly. "Stand there," he ordered pointing to another column placed evenly between the two geniuses. He tossed the doctor a pair of handcuffs and said, "Hug the pillar and put the cuffs on."**

 **John sighed, and did as he was told. He couldn't see any way out at the moment and didn't want to set Wells off in any way. Once the cuffs were in place, Wells stepped forward, keeping the gun pointed evenly and made sure the cuffs fit snugly against his wrists. Once he felt John was secure, he stepped back.**

 **"Now that we're all here, what do you intend to do with us?" John asked evenly. From his peripheral vision, he saw Sherlock huff out a snort and roll his eyes.**

 **"I only wanted him," he said pointing at the nearly unconscious Moriarty "But, I ended up with Sherlock bloody Holmes and now you as well. He sounded petulant and surly. "And, I don't know how you've managed it all these years," the man said keeping his pistol pointed firmly at the center of John's chest. "I've been trying to hunt this… filth down for the past two years," nodding his head in the Moriarty's direction. He'd nearly spit out the word "filth" and John knew from the emotion he held barely in check the man wanted to kill Moriarty very badly. "I finally found out about this little getaway boat, and I've been watching it for six months now hoping he'd need it to escape someday. My waiting game finally paid off, it seems. But, I got more than I bargained for with you two."**

 **How did you know I was coming. John was sure Sherlock would have rather put out his own eyes than give him away. So, it must have been Jim trying to bargain his way out of a tight spot.**

 **"Never mind the details, Doctor. He tried to threaten me with you two. Told me you'd bring the whole British government down on my head. Pah, I'm sure they're already on your tail. But, I've got a trick or two I know to get away from them."**

 **"Let us go," John said trying to keep his voice light, neutral. "You obviously have some revenge plans for him. Let us go."**

 **"Revenge! He killed my partner and the only person I've ever loved. My husband, Tyler got in his way. This was his yacht, and that slime wanted it. Tyler told him the boat wasn't for sale, and we thought that would be the end of if, but a few weeks later, I went to Monaco on business and found my Tyler had been in an accident. He'd fallen overboard, and his boat had been stolen. I tracked the boat back to this marina and found out it had been stocked and prepped as a getaway vehicle. I still knew all the codes; he hadn't bothered changing them, and I've been lying in wait for the man who murdered my… I'm no murderer. I have no desire to take lives unnecessarily, but I will not let this fetid, little monster leave this boat alive. That, I promise you."**

 **To John's amazement, Moriarty tried lifting his head and opened his eyes. He tried forming words but just managed to spit out few choking noises.**

 **"He doesn't have long, in that position. He'll asphyxiate…"**

 **"We've got time, doctor. You're not the only one here with medical expertise," Wells said and grimaced in obvious pain.**

 **John took a moment and looked him over with a critical eye. Wells, John didn't know if that were his first or last name, had pronounced, dark circles under his eyes. During the short time they'd been talking the man's breathing seemed labored and uneven and he swallowed thickly. John guessed he might have advanced stage cancer going by the hollowed cheeks under his grizzly beard and overall gauntness that haunted those afflicted with a terminal disease. Wells was certainly dying. John made no mistake about the fact, however, that the man still had sufficient strength to pull a trigger. He reminded John of a cornered tiger ready to spring. This could go very badly.**

 **"We're leaving," Wells announced suddenly. "I'm taking us out of harbor. Just waiting for you to join us, Doctor. I didn't want anyone following me and keeping me from doing what I've set out to do. Sit tight gents while I get us underway." Wells turned around and exited through a door on the opposite side. "I'm locking you in for good measure." John turned his head just in time to see Wells stepping through the other door and heard the electronic beeps of another key code. He thought frantically back to the numbers he'd punched in earlier but for the life of him couldn't recall them. He looked at Sherlock who stared back serenely at him. The door whooshed open, and Wells left them alone.**

 **After their captor's departure, John's gaze fell on the figure of Moriarty struggling for breath in his chair. He hadn't noticed before because Moriarty's suit jacket hid most of it, but he had substantial scarring running up both sides of his neck from the explosive collar. The damage had to have been extensive as John remembered lacerations from the small explosive collar he'd thrown at him. He had no idea how he'd avoided bleeding out the last time he'd seen him. The fact that he'd been saved was a credit not only to modern medicine but to Moriarty's vicious will to live.**

 **The criminal mastermind had closed his eyes again and seemed to concentrate on pulling in each ragged breath. The garroted rope around his neck dug into his neck. The bright red welt that had already begun forming and the skin beneath the cruel collar looked chaffed and raw. The sight sickened him. No human deserved this, well maybe this human did. Wells had just as much reason to hate Moriarty as John did, it seemed. It repulsed and satisfied John to see Moriarty in such a state. He tore his eyes away from the labored rise and fall of Jim's chest and found Sherlock's eyes again. "Well?" he asked.**

 **"Well," Sherlock responded and John's relief at hearing the strength in that voice nearly unnerved him. Thank God he seemed okay.**

 **"Sherlock," John said warningly. "It wasn't the time to be cryptic. Are you injured?"**

 **"No, John. I'm confined to this chair, but I'm otherwise unhurt," he replied. He looked at John with a touch of his old insufferable attitude of "What? Can't you see?" and it sent a trilling jolt through him. Confident Sherlock meant he knew something or had solved something, and that gave John cause to hope they might make it out of this alive.**

 **The yacht gave a shudder and John felt the thrum of an engine come to life. Wells was moving the boat out onto the open sea.**

 **"Sherlock," John said. "What are we going to do? We can't let him take us out on the ocean."**

 **"Not much we can do, John," Sherlock said keeping his eyes locked on John's. "You came for me."**

 **"Of course, I came for you, Sherlock. You were in trouble and he," John tossed his head at the struggling Moriarty, "had escaped yet again! I wasn't going to leave you again. I'm done leaving you…"**

 **Moriarty made a gasping sound, and both Sherlock and John turned their gaze on the struggling figure. If John didn't know how much effort it would have taken to simply stay alive, he would have thought Jim was laughing at them. "Mmm- Maudlin bull bull…ssshit," John heard him gasp out, and he fell silent.**

 **"Ignore him. He's about to die," Sherlock stated.**

 **"Really?" John asked. "What makes you so sure this time?" John's curiosity winning out over the ridiculous situation he and Sherlock had found themselves in yet again.**

 **"The man who captured you, Wells, is going to kill him," Sherlock stated decisively.**

 **Moriarty's eyes widened a little at Sherlock's statement, and he squirmed in his seat as he tried to find a more comfortable position for his neck. John felt a pang of sympathy at Jim's situation. Torture had never been his thing. Even if he'd been so furious as to want someone dead, he'd rather just shoot them and end it quickly rather than draw it out. He saw no point in drawing out death to satisfy his own sense of retribution. This sickened him.**

 **"And you know this because?" John prompted.**

 **Wells is ex-military, special forces and highly trained. As you've probably surmised, he is dying of stage three cancer of the throat. He's got a month or so left. Moriarty killed his husband two years ago and stole this yacht, that's true, but he also tried to kill Wells as well. But, killing an ex-solider as highly trained as he was proved to be difficult. It also will prove to be James Moriarty's undoing. Wells has been modifying his boat in a number of ways. I doubt even Mycroft could track it once he's out on the open ocean. Once he's got us far enough out, he plans on killing Dear Jim and tossing his body overboard. I simply got in his way, so I had to be trussed up. He doesn't want to kill us, John."**

 **"Why did he wait for me?"**

 **"James convinced him you had a way of tracking me. He told Wells I'd told you to come on your own, and so he decided to wait to see if you would. You did, John. And now, we're all going on a sea voyage together."**

 **"That is just about what I expected," John said shaking his head. He had to admit his own stupidity in following Sherlock's orders to come alone. Well, if Mycroft had been tracking him, they might have a chance right now. If not, well, he hoped they do something to resolve this situation and get themselves home. He might as well sit down. He knelt down and managed to work his hips so he could sit on his ass and still see both Moriarty and Sherlock. His shoulder already ached in this uncomfortable position, so he relaxed it as much as possible.**

 **"How long have you been in that chair?" John asked giving him another appraising look.**

 **"Almost twenty hours," Sherlock responded flexing his hands. The ropes were very tight, John noticed, and he worried about Sherlock's circulation.**

 **"Numb hands? Tingling?" John asked.**

 **"Some, I've been trying to keep the blood flowing as much as possible, but I'd like to be free. He's got masterful knot tying skills," Sherlock said, and John thought he sounded impressed. I've been trying all day to work them loose but the more I wiggle, the tighter they get. I got them so tight; he had to redo them a few hours ago. I've learned my lesson and kept my movements to a minimum. I'm all right, John. You okay, is your shoulder…"**

 **"It's fine," John said cutting him off. No sense in complaining about a situation they could do nothing about.**

 **"John, I think I've got something …" but Sherlock's words was cut short by the sound of the door opening again.**

 **Wells reentered and said, "We're underway. We're on a course that will take us out to deep sea. I've rigged up a kind of autopilot. There's another large storm coming in, and I'm sailing right into the middle of it. It'll help with keeping us off the radar."**

 **"Is that wise?" Sherlock asked. Wells shook his head and smiled a nasty looking smile at him.**

 **"No, Mr. Holmes, it's not. I've just heard over the wire there are severe storm warnings and high winds. This one should be one nasty blow. But, it suits me just fine. You see, I don't plan on coming back from this trip anyway."**

 **John looked from Sherlock's pale, placid face to Wells red-cheeked one. Their captor's hand went to his chest again and his eyes closed as another wave of pain swept through him.**

 **"Time for my meds, Doctor. The pain gets pretty bad after a few hours. I'm going to dose up and get us as far out as possible. Then, I'll come for him. If you do anything to stop me, I'll kill you both."**

 **He turned then and exited back through the door.**


	20. Chapter 20

**"Sherlock!" John hissed.**

 **Sherlock smiled, "I'm very glad to see you, John. I wasn't entirely sure you'd wouldn't just ignore my texts. I wouldn't have blamed you if you'd shut the door on me forever."**

"No," John said shaking his head and smiling sadly. "I don't think I'll ever be able to ignore you again. But, I don't think now is the time…" John said trying to change the subject. They needed to figure a way to extradite themselves from their current predicament.

"It's always the time, John. You coming here to help me," Sherlock paused a moment, "It makes me regret everything I've ever thought or done to you. No listen!" Sherlock cut him off before he could protest. His voice rose as a red flush began to infuse his face. "I'm through worrying about what others…" and here he glanced at Moriarty, "think about what I do or do not care about. I CARE about you, John. I want to find a way back to where we were and start over."

"Sherlock, I care about you too. When Mycroft's team lost you…I had only one thought, I must get to you. I had to help you somehow. I think we can do that. We can start over," and John smiled his first genuine smile in a long time. "If anyone can do it, we can, but we've got to get out of this mess first."

The sudden look of hope that passed over Sherlock's face made John sure again. He couldn't help the warm feeling of fondness that rushed through him at that look. If Sherlock meant it, if he really could feel empathy then, they could move on, maybe even move on together.

"John," Sherlock said squirming suddenly.

"Don't, you'll tighten the ropes," John said worriedly. But Sherlock kept squirming. "I've got a lock picking kit….in my shoe. He managed to worm one of his expensive, black shoes off his foot. "If I can kick it over to you, you can pick your lock and free me."

Hope sprung in John's mind. "Yes, try Sherlock."

There passed a tense few minutes where Sherlock tried to twist his foot into a good position. He had such limited room to move and John could tell the tightening ropes were becoming painful. Soon, they'd be too tight for Sherlock to move at all. They had one chance at this…. Sherlock stopped to regroup for a moment. Then, he maneuvered the chair leg so it pinched the toe of his sock and began tugging his foot free of his sock. It took a bit, but he finally pulled it free. The bonds were cruelly tight now. Using his toes, he grabbed the opening of his shoe. Using his whole body, he whipped forward suddenly and tossed the shoe in John's direction. Moriarty's eyes tracked every movement and narrowed when the shoe landed just out of the reach of John's foot. John groaned. He had to lengthen himself somehow. Then, an idea occurred. He toed off his own shoe and sock. Using his own toes to grip the opening of his shoe, he used it as a tool to try to drag Sherlock's shoe toward him.

It occurred to him that had he been able to watch himself doing this, he'd have laughed himself sick. Absurdity followed him even to the bitter end, he thought.

Sweat began to run down his chest as he increased his effort to use his shoe to capture Sherlock's. Finally, the boat lurched sideways and the shoe rolled fortuitously toward John's outstretched foot. One of the laces of Sherlock's shoe caught in the tongue of John's trainer and felt it move toward him. Sherlock's sharp inhale encouraged him to keep a slow but steady pressure on his shoe so he didn't lose it. He had no idea when Captain Wells would make another appearance so he just kept at it.

Eventually, he hooked one bare toe into Sherlock's enormous, leather shoe and pulled it toward him. He had to contort himself wildly to get the shoe up to his handcuffed hands. But again, where there was a will, there was a way as he remembered his Mum saying to him as a boy. He had great will.

He found the lock picking kit encased in the heel, and he used the little tools to get himself free under the intense gaze of two geniuses. He felt an audible relief when he heard the cuffs click open. In a second he was up and rubbing his shoulder and trying to get the kinks out of his legs. He hurried over to Sherlock and began working the knots loose. He wished he had something to cut them with but Wells had taken his pocketknife. Sherlock nodded to a small desk in the corner of the room. "Try in there, John. See if there is anything,."

John hurried over to the desk and yanked open drawers looking for anything sharp. He found an ornate letter opener that looked promising, but ran a finger over the edge. Dull as a drainpipe. He pocketed it unthinkingly and kept rooting around in the drawers. To his amazement, he found a pair of surgical shears and a roll of gauze. Jackpot, he thought. Shears were designed to cut through clothing and these looked a sturdy pair. He hustled back to Sherlock and used the shears to cut the rope binding Sherlock's arms to the chair. Freed, he began clawing at the ropes around his wrists and John knelt down between his legs to work on the ropes around his ankles. His nose, only inches away from Sherlock's crotch, breathed in the musky scent of the man. Unconsciously, he drew in the deep, unmistakable smell of Sherlock; it calmed him. He kept working on the knots. Free from his bounds, Sherlock stood up unsteadily. He'd been sitting for a long time and he wobbled a bit as he stood.

"Careful, take it slow," John warned.

Sherlock used the wall as a support to make his way across the room until he stood in front of Moriarty. He looked down on the man, eyes unreadable.

"Sherlock!" John hissed again. "What are you doing?"

The detective stood in front of Moriarty swaying slightly, staring down at the cursed wretch who'd caused him no end of pain. John could see the desire kill him etched in every line in Sherlock's face. It seemed he'd reached a decision and had begun to move his hand forward when they heard the shuffling footsteps behind the door Wells had left through earlier. Wells was armed, while they were not. John scuttled quickly toward the deck door. Locked of course; he couldn't budge it. Then he saw the number panel. Panicking, he tried to think of the blasted code. He had only seconds before Wells would be on them when the five digits floated into his memory and he keyed in: six, six, two, one, two. The door disconnected from the frame with a satisfying whump and the two men were through just as they head the other door open.

John reached behind and grabbed Sherlock's wrist in case he still felt unsteady. He forcefully drug Sherlock up the steps. They made it to the top and opened the outside door. It nearly wrenched free of John's grip. In the time it had taken to get free of the ropes, Wells had driven them right into the heart of the storm. Rain swept down almost sideways. A fierce wind blew the door back into them nearly driving them back down the stairs. John put his shoulder to it and Sherlock helped. Together, they pushed it open and clambered onto the water-soaked deck. John looked wildly around for cover and pulled on Sherlock's arm again as he found a suitable hiding place. They dashed toward a solid, metal square box that housed some piece of nautical equipment. Just as long as it provided some kind of cover from Wells' gun, John didn't care what it was.

They crouched down behind their cover. The sea storm blew cold rain into their heads and faces. Water began trickling down John's neck under his collar. But he stayed as still as possible, willing himself to calm down and walk through his combat training. Stay under cover, look for exits, watch all vantage points, look for any possible lines of shot from other angles. But, Wells never followed them. In fact, Wells had had other plans. After waiting over five minutes, John decided to break cover and scout out the backside of the boat. "Wait here," he mouthed in Sherlock's ear.

However, when he moved, Sherlock followed right behind him. "Git," he said under his breath and heard a low chuckle from behind him.

They stayed low and moved quickly toward the back of the deck. They were horribly exposed for most of the trek. The back of John's neck prickled as he imagined Wells taking aim from somewhere, and picking them off. But, when they reached the back of the deck and John peeked cautiously around the corner, he understood why the reason they had not heard the sharp retort of gunfire. Wells had come up on deck from the other door and now he had Moriarty at gunpoint. The pair stood in the driving rain facing each other. Moriarty slouched unsteadily, shoulders slumped and head down. His movements seemed sluggish. Perhaps having the rope so tightly around his neck for so long and caused permanent brain damage. Rain dripped off his short hair and even the tip of his nose. He looked beaten, but something told John that the spider only shammed.

Wells' hand held steady as he aimed between the soft, brown eyes of the man responsible for his beloved husband's death. Sherlock's warm breath ghosted over John's ear as came forward to put his face around the corner. They could do nothing but witness the scene set before them. If they moved from their cover, Wells would see them and shoot. Moriarty would jump him and then he'd be armed. An armed Wells was the lesser of two evils.

When John thought back over the few moments, he remembered seeing everything in a slow motion. Wells' unoccupied hand crept up in that gesture of pain he'd shown earlier causing the hand with the gun to dip slightly and Moriarty used that fraction of a second to lunge forward in an attempt to disarm his would be executioner. Wells jerked his gun arm back up and John heard a pop. Moriarty's head snapped back and a spray of blood shot out from the back of his head and fell in a no-nonsense, little patter on the wet deck behind him. His knees bent and he slumped down in a crumple, falling face first into the deck.

Then, time sped up. John surged forward and Sherlock grabbed a fist full of his jacket to keep him from running forward. "No, John," Sherlock said fiercely and yanked the doctor backward. He wrapped long arms around John to keep him from running into danger. Sherlock understood what was about to happen next, even if John didn't. Wells looked down at the limp form of Moriarty and shot him in the head again taking off almost the top portion of the man's skull. Blood and brains sprayed up and spattered onto the bottoms of Wells's cargo pants. John heard one more shot as Wells put another bullet between the shoulder blades of Moriarty's corpse. In the state he was in, John wondered if he'd have shot anyone coming toward him, and was thankful Sherlock had the presence of mind to keep him from such a stupid impulse to move into that line of fire.

Sherlock still held John tightly when the dying ex-husband of Tyler Wells turned the gun around, placed the barrel under his chin and pulled the trigger one last time.


	21. Chapter 21

They both stood in silence for a full minute. John leaned unconsciously back into Sherlock's chest and felt the detective's arms hold tight for a few heartbeats, then slip away. At that moment, John wanted nothing more than to have Sherlock hold him like that forever. The thought of moving forward into the grisly murder-suicide scene ahead made John suddenly tired beyond reason. Another shocking murder, another senseless death, but now… A slow realization hit John that the man, the evil entity known as Moriarty, lay dead on the slippery deck of a yacht caught in a storm on the high seas. They were trapped in the middle of the same raging storm, and he certainly didn't know a damn thing about navigating a boat this (or any) size. His military training had never prepared him for this turn of events and Sherlock didn't seem like the type who often went sailing. Who knew, somewhere in his mind palace he might have a working knowledge of ships or boats or yachts.

Sherlock seemed to be taking his cue from John and stayed behind him until he felt ready to move forward. The doctor in him needed to check to see if Wells had managed to survive his bullet to the brain. He didn't think survival was a high probability, but he had to check. He squared his shoulders and tucked his chin down into his chest to keep out as much of the pelting water as he could. This side of the deck had no shelter from the driving storm. The two bodies on deck shifted with the upward and downward movement of the ocean. John noticed that the wind had picked up, and the waves now looked huge and turbulent. Some of the swells resembled mountains that could take the little boat out at any second.

"John!" Sherlock yelled behind him. "We need to get to the engine room. We have to try to get this boat back to safety."

"Just let me…" John tried to shout over the wind and started forward again toward the two bodies. Sherlock grabbed a hold of his jacket, and together they braved the gale and moved toward the prostrate forms. With a lot of pulling, and grabbing hold of stationary items on deck, they finally made it to Wells' body. John could find no pulse. The gun had made a mess of the back of the man's head, but his face was untouched.

He turned his attention to the other figure. Moriarty had to be dead, John thought. The number of bullets he'd taken to the head left no room for doubt. But John stumbled on hands and knees toward the mangled body. He lifted one wrist, pushing down a sense of revulsion at having to touch Moriarty's corpse, and found no flutter of life. He let the wrist fall limply back to the deck.

He saw the door to the small engine cabin behind Wells and motioned for Sherlock to help him get to the door. He didn't care if the wind and waves washed both the dead bodies overboard at this point. Doomsday threatened them both if they didn't get this boat to safer waters.

They slipped across the deck; the ship had begun to tilt dangerously, and finally made it to the engine room. John and Sherlock shouldered their way inside and closed the door against the relentless elements. At least, they could hear each other in the small room. A small heater and defroster worked steadily in the space, and John relished in it's warmth. He felt much better in the warm cabin. Sherlock shook water droplets from his dark curls, and began looking over the instruments that controlled the yacht.

John felt desperation hit him as he looked at the gleaming dials and panels. They meant nothing to him. Sherlock seemed to have found the switch for the radio and was toggling it back and forth. "He's disabled it, John," Sherlock said, worry leaching into his voice. We're out here on our own now."

The ship lurched to the left, and they had to hold on to the panels to keep from falling. A small notebook fell off the small shelf just above the radio. John picked it up hoping for instructions of some kind and found a note from Wells on the inside of the front page.

"To John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. Well, gents, if you are reading this, I'm probably dead. Sorry about leaving you in such a bad spot. I've disabled the radio and GPS tracking device, but you can turn it back on. There's instructions on the inside panel, just follow them. Call for help."

W.

John passed the note over to Sherlock, who read it carefully. He then knelt under the radio and opened the panel. There were written instructions. He read them quickly, then stood up surveying the disabled radio. He plugged in a few wires, flipped some switches, and the radio lit up. John breathed easier when he saw the power light and gave Sherlock's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. They just might make it out of this, he thought and then heard a distinctive electronic sizzle. The smell of burnt rubber and cooked ozone filled the air of the cabin. The radio panel went dark, and John looked into Sherlock's dazed expression. That obviously wasn't supposed to happen.

"What did you do?" John couldn't help shouting. "Sherlock! That radio was our only hope."

Sherlock sank to his knees with a look of utter dejection on his face. "I don't know. I followed the instructions."

"Let me see," John knelt beside him and opened the panel back up. The ship lurched again forcing John almost into Sherlock's lap. He read the printed instructions for resetting the radio and looked at the internal wires of the ship's radio. A small curl of smoke issued from the interior. He went through the directions step by step and retraced each connection. He pressed all the correct buttons and got nothing from the radio.

He huffed in frustration. "I think it's fried. Wells might have damaged it when he disabled it. Can we use the engine to get us out of this?"

"I'm afraid to try," Sherlock said. "I blew up the radio."

"Don't you have "sail a ship or boat or whatever" in your mind palace? John asked verging on hysteria. Outside, the storm raged as if it would never end.

"No," Sherlock said giving him one of his patented "don't be an idiot" eye rolls. "I don't."

They were dead in the water. Without the engines, they would drift aimlessly on the ocean. Do you have any idea where Wells put our phones? Maybe they are in here somewhere. John began a frantic search for their phones. He pulled open every drawer and cabinet in the little room but came up with nothing. The ship tossed them again, and a flash of lightening went off almost on top of them.

"Christ, that was close," John swore.

Sherlock had regained his feet and once more poured over the engine controls. I do believe this may…" he pressed a button, turned a key and John heard the engines power up.

"Thank God!" he said.

Sherlock grabbed one of three leavers on the panel and pushed it forward. The ship surged forward and almost knocked John off balance. "We're moving," Sherlock said dryly. "I have no idea where to go, but we can move forward until we get to calmer waters, at least." Sherlock took his hand away from the leaver and checked a few dials for readings. He grabbed hold of a steering wheel and said," I'll keep her on this heading until we get out of it. No sense in going around in circles."

It wasn't much of a plan, but John felt better trying to do something about their situation. One of the gauges showed what John suspected was the amount of fuel the tank had left. It read full. The boat had been built before everything had turned digital and still had old –fashioned dials. At least he could read them.

"Looks like we've got a plenty of fuel," John said tapping the dial. "One thing going our way, finally. Full speed ahead, Captain," John said and then grinned. They weren't dead yet. They would either get out of this storm or perish at sea. They would be in interesting company, to say the least. John looked out and noticed Wells' body had slipped perilously close to the railing. One good wave would wash him overboard. Moriarty's corpse hadn't moved much, but John couldn't be arsed to care. They should probably make an attempt to preserve the body for Mycroft's team. He would worry about it if they got through this storm.

Sherlock followed John's gaze and noticed the two bodies still flopping around on deck. "He's dead, then," John said putting a hand on Sherlock's arm. "How are you doing with that?"

"I find I don't have any feeling at all right at the moment. I know I should care more. A few minutes ago, I contemplated wringing his neck with my own hands. I wanted to, for all the pain he'd caused us…especially you, John. I'm happy he's gone," Sherlock finished. Two swivel stools connected to the floor with thick bolts stood near the engine controls. Sherlock slumped into one of them. He kept his eyes down as he spoke about Moriarty and John felt a twinge of guilt. Sherlock had wanted to strangle a man for hurting him, and John couldn't help but feel responsible, in part.

"Do you think it's over? I mean his network, all his connections? Is it over?" John asked carefully.

"Mostly," Sherlock answered. "The stronghold in Australia was one of his last. This boat very surely constituted his final escape plan. He'd been nearing the end of his resources when Mycroft tracked him to Australia. His health had surely occupied him more than we knew; his injuries were extensive and costly to repair," Sherlock replied. "John, I think we should go out and get his body. We'll need some proof he's dead, even if it's just to prove to his associates he's gone."

John sighed, "All right, let's go out and bring him in."

They braved another foray into the storm, leaving the warm cabin and re-crossing the deck. Sherlock had found a rope in stowed in a cabinet and used it as an anchor to keep them from being swept away. It turned out; Moriarty's pants had snagged on a protruding bolt, and they had to rip him free before dragging him inside. They'd just managed to shut the door again when a huge wave crashed over the deck drenching everything. John noticed Wells' body no longer hovered near the railings. It had disappeared.

Panting from the exertions, John and Sherlock pushed the body into a heap as far away as they could get it in the small room. Most of the blood had washed away in the rain and Moriarty lay face down. John found a folded piece of canvas and drew it over the body with a sigh. He sat dejectedly on the other stool staring out at the endless sea.

Sherlock kept a watchful eye on the horizon and continued to steer them away from the storm.

"Look, John," Sherlock said a sliver of hope catching in his voice. "A clear spot. To the right."

John looked, and sure enough, the clouds weren't as thick in that direction. "Let's head over there," he said.

It worked. As they headed for clearer skies, the storm subsided, and the ship steadied out. John had begun to feel the tug of seasickness from the constant motion and gratefully thanked the sea gods for the smoother sailing. They managed to stay out of the storm's path for almost an hour, and John relished the thought they might have reached safety.

"Thank you, Sherlock," John said after they'd sat in silence for almost a half hour in tense anticipation.

"For what?" Sherlock asked looking at him steadily.

"For keeping me from charging out to Wells. I wasn't thinking. You probably saved my life."

Sherlock smiled and said, "Of course, John. I wasn't about to lose you to a grieving madman any more than I'd wanted to lose you to Moriarty."

John returned the smile feeling one of those genuine moments from "before" creeping over him. He felt that after all that had happened during the last few weeks, he might be able to trust Sherlock again. It felt like something they could arrive at together, given time.

"I'm very glad you were there at St. Pete's," John said. "I don't know why, be we work better together than apart. God knows I still care about you. I don't think I ever really stopped caring about you. Even when I tried living in the states. I used to dream about you, did you know that" John asked.

"You did?" Sherlock responded. "I used to think about you every day. I hoped you were all right. I hoped you were happy."  
"I was for a while," John said. "I tried it on for size, but Tara and I both knew it wasn't for me. She let me go and I'll always be grateful for her and Tommy. But, I needed to come back. Now I know why. I had to come back to you."

Sherlock kept his gaze straight ahead. He didn't say anything so John kept doggedly on,"But, we've been through a lot, eh? We might be nearing am end to this game, finally?"

"As far as I'm concerned, it is over, John. I'm not willing to play anymore. Your life is far too precious to gamble with," Sherlock said.

"And you, Sherlock. You are worth a hundred James Moriartys, a thousand. You will have to forgive yourself for all that happened when he had you."

"John," Sherlock said looking at him, "I don't know if I can forgive myself. I did such awful things."

"I know what he did to you, Sherlock. You made up for it by stopping him. You had him beat. You got away from him, and that's the important part. There was a time I thought you two might be made for each other. The way you delighted in every puzzle he put before you."

Sherlock hung his head and sighed deeply. He placed one large hand on the leg of his dark trousers rubbing it back and forth. "He did fascinate me, for a time. But you…John. You've always been my north star. You've always been far more fascinating at anyone else has ever been. After I had met you, I knew I could never really let you go. I'm sorry I'm so-."

"Sherlock," John said covering one of the detective's hands with his own. Sherlock immediately stopped rubbing his leg and looked up at John, hope cautiously peeking through his expression. It made John's heart do a little loop before resuming a regular beat. That small peep of hope did unexpected things to his stomach and his resolve. For all his power and intelligence, Sherlock simply wanted to be with him, forever apparently. John had only to turn his head to the left to find proof that Sherlock ultimately choose him over the mad. criminal mastermind. Even after Moriarty's death, Sherlock only had eyes, and heart for him. He hadn't even seemed to care about the corpse in the corner. Maybe the shock of it might settle in, but for now, it seemed Sherlock had moved on. Perhaps he was ready to come back into the world and be the good man John knew he could be.


	22. Chapter 22

"Come here," John said and opened his arms. Sherlock inhaled a short, sharp breath and leaned into John's embrace. They were both damp and smelled of ocean but John didn't care. He embraced Sherlock warmly and fully. Sherlock's long arms wrapped around his shoulders and crossed over his back. Even though Sherlock was taller and had to bend down a little, he pressed the side of his face into John's coat and breathed deep. John rubbed Sherlock's long, lean back gently and held him for the space of a long moment. He embraced Sherlock until he felt the tension leave his frame and his breathing evened out then, he held on a moment more.

When he let go and pulled back, he looked into Sherlock's eyes and smiled. The time had come. John could see the open question in Sherlock's eyes, "Will you forgive me?" they asked. "I love you," they said and, " I'm inexpressibly sorry," they told him.

"Yes, Sherlock, I do forgive you," John whispered. "I do forgive you. I want to come back, if I can."

"You can always come back, John," Sherlock said and cupped one of John's cheeks thumb gently rubbing back and forth as he spoke.

John didn't mind the touching, he closed his eyes and gave himself over to the gentle sensation. It felt comforting and without thinking John reached his own hand around to the back of Sherlock's neck and pulled him into a kiss. Everything fell away from them both. The roar of the ship's engines, the gentle rocking of the waves, and the uneasy presence of Moriarty's corpse ceased to matter. Of course their first real kiss would be under conditions like these. But, what did John know of love's lonely and austere offices. During his life, love had found him under some of the oddest circumstances. It had once pounced on him at a school dance from across a crowded room of teenagers when he'd looked across the gym floor at a girl he'd known since primary school and seen her in a perfect strapless dress. He thought he had had found him at the back of a crowded pub in the form of a barmaid who'd dumped a pint of biter on him in a vain attempt to serve several drunken rugby team members who wouldn't stop singing. And finally, he thought he'd met "the one" when a beautiful schoolteacher with an adorable son entered his life and almost stole his heart. Each of these moments felt like love to him at the time, shocking, all encompassing, overwhelming.

However, this time when love pronounced itself, it felt like no other time before it. How could he feel perfect friendship, betrayal, hatred, compassion and passion all at once? It drove a bright, burning point right into his heart during that kiss and left him breathless. He poured every bit of how he felt about Sherlock of into that one physical act. He turned his head to the left, opened his lips and poured all of what he had only begun to realize about this love into the man he would never be able to forget or leave or stay away from. There had never been a kiss like this one in John's life, and chances were, he'd never have one like it again. It felt like coming home to a place he always knew was there but couldn't quite reach until now.

Sherlock received it all from him. He opened to John and took every nuance, every fiery barb, every loving caress and a moan wrenched from him as he held John close and kissed him back. He felt it all. John pushed everything he had into that kiss and Sherlock understood, finally, what John wanted him to know. He'd forgiven him, he accepted him and wanted him. Something had changed between them, some irrevocable key had been turned unlocking what had lurked there from the beginning. John loved him back! Sherlock felt it now, understood it, marveled at it. John loved him back.

The kiss ended. John took his turn at needing comfort and pressed his cheek into the detective's shoulder. Sherlock held him tightly and ran long-fingered hands through his hair. They stayed that way for a while just breathing together, watching through the boat's windows as the sky lightened and the waters calmed.

They broke apart finally. John sighed and then smiled warily. "Yep," he said. "I think that did it." He'd felt a warm bubble burst inside him and he felt better than he had since he'd decided to leave the States. This was the right choice. They belonged together. Whatever came next, John would be there for Sherlock. The detective wasn't broken, but he had changed. John could see it in the way he moved, the way he spoke and the way he looked at John. His arrogance, once his defining characteristic, now melted into a calmer maturity. The things he'd done in the past two years now defined him in a new way. John knew things would be different this time.

Sherlock, for his part, watched John intently as he took off his jacket and folded it neatly on the back of a stool. The tiny cabin had grown overwarm. He said, "I want you to know, you're welcome back at Baker Street any time. Mrs. Hudson still has it ready for me, us. She's never let it out to anyone else."

"Thank you, I'll consider it," John said. "It might do me good to move out of my mum's place. I hate putting her in danger and if I'm there, she will be."

"I think we'll all be able to breathe a little easier now, John," Sherlock said flicking his gaze over to the body in the corner. "I want us both to find our way back, if we can."

"We can," John said and threaded his fingers through Sherlock's cold ones. He laid his other hand over them to warm them up. Sometime in the last few minutes, John had already come to the decision that he wanted to come back. He was glad Sherlock had asked. "We need to get out this mess first, though, yeah?"

"Yeah." Sherlock said hunched down to the destroyed radio. "I'm going to try with this again. Perhaps things have cooled down and we may get it to work." He opened the panel back up and began going through the process of trying to restart it. Another wave of fried rubber and hot metal hit smell them both. "Oww," Sherlock said drawing his hand quickly back. "I don't think it's fixable."

John arched a skeptical eyebrow at the still smoking innards of the radio. The engine room smelled of fried circuitry. "Sherlock, we may have to get ourselves out of this. If we put our heads together, we can figure out how to signal for help without the radio. Mycroft's got to have people out looking. We'll get back."

Sherlock closed the panel, tried flipping the power switch once more and let out a resigned sigh. It didn't miraculously turn back on. "Let's look around the rest of the yacht and see what Wells has left us to work with," Sherlock suggested.

"Good idea. Should we just leave him?" John asked nodding at the corpse. He resisted the urge to check the pulse of the man to make double sure he hadn't survived.

"Yes. Leave him here," Sherlock said. And, as if reading John's thoughts, he kneeled down and rested his fingers lightly on the man's wrist. He even pulled the plastic sheet back a little and checked the pulse point at the neck, nothing. John turned away from the sight in case he caught a glimpse of the dead face. He didn't want to see it now, or ever again. Sherlock stood and opened the small cabin door to the outside deck. He looked at John and said, "It's over. I'm done with him. He's done with us, now too."

John nodded. Somehow, with Sherlock's pronouncement, he felt a great weight slide away. Who knew what traps lie in wait for them in the future, but this man would never be one of them again. It cleared the way, John thought. It cleared the way.

They decided to bring the boat to a stop and wait in this section of calm water. The further away they got from harbor, the more risk they ran of getting thoroughly lost. They went round to the front of the yacht and descended the stairs to the main room in which they'd been tied up. John easily remembered the code this time. The room felt comforting now rather than dangerous. The other door, the one leading presumably to a galley and bedroom remained shut and locked. It turned out to have a different key code. It took Sherlock five minutes to guess the number. John smiled at him fondly. "Brilliant," he said before he could help himself and the corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched up in response.

On the left side they found a good sized bedroom and en suite. John checked it out to make sure there were no stowaways. The other door opened into a well-stocked galley on the right side of a short hallway. Boxes of food, water, and cooking fuel for the range greeted them. He hoped they wouldn't need to survive for long on it but it was wonderful to know it was here just in case their stay at sea was a long one. He hoped to God Mycroft would find them soon.

Under one of the cabinets, John spied an electric kettle. He filled it full of water from the galley's sink and plugged it in. He hoped the water was potable; but, just in case, he'd just have to boil the hell out of it. The power on the ship seemed fine and the kettle's light kicked on. He searched the cupboards for tea as was rewarded with stockpile of various kinds and flavors. He tried not to think about who had taken the time to select these varieties. He hoped it was a lackey and not Jim himself. He shuddered at the idea of drinking the villain's favorite kind of tea. So, he opted for his favorite, vanilla chai. "Want a cup?" he asked Sherlock who had sunk himself into one of the galley's two straight-backed metal chairs.

"Yes," he said more out of politeness, John thought, than any real desire for tea. John chuckled. Sherlock being polite for his sake. He could get used to that.

He fixed the tea and set a two camp style metal cups down on the table filled with the fragrant brew. He'd found some powered milk and sugar in the cupboard as well and placed them on the table. "No biscuits, I'm afraid. Maybe I'll stumble across them when I do a proper search," he said.

"This is fine," Sherlock said adding a heaping dollop of sugar to his tea. John shook his head at that. The familiar sight made him smile again. "Drink up and we'll look for our phones. God knows if we'll get a signal out here."

"They're not on board, John. He'll have dumped them in the sea back at harbor for fear of being tracked with them," Sherlock said. "He might have a flare gun back in the cabin upstairs. I didn't think to check for them but they're required safety issue. He's bound to have some. We should wait until full dark to use them. It would be even better if the skies cleared up a bit too. More chance of being seen."

John nodded. It made sense to him. They drank their tea in silence for a moment. He could see Sherlock eyes begin to droop. He'd been tied to a chair for almost 24 hours and lord knew, he probably didn't sleep at all during that time. He had to be running out of steam. John had caught a few hours on the transport flight, but he felt that last few days catching up to him as well. The kiss already seemed a long time ago to John. The edges of the memory turning hazy in his mind. He wondered if Sherlock felt it too. John didn't want the space between them to grow further so he placed his hand on Sherlock's forearm. The detective froze mid sip and waited. John ran his hand up his arm until he reached Sherlock's shoulder.

"John," Sherlock said softly. "I..I want…"

"I know. I say we find out if this boat has a bedroom and lie down for a while. We have a few hours until it's dark," he said and drew nearer. He leaned in and kissed Sherlock again drawing him close. "We could rest up a bit. I don't think getting some sleep would hurt you one bit. You've been up nearly 36 hours from what I can tell."

"I'm fine, John," Sherlock murmured. "I can help you turn the ship out."

"Yes," John said "After we've rested a bit. If Mycroft should happen to come along in the meantime, so much the better. I say we let this ship float right here in the water and wait a while. If the wind kicks up again, we'll try for calmer waters. Come on, Sherlock," John said and held out his hand.

Sherlock bowed his head and nodded. He looked up through long lashes and gave John a look that suggested he was far from tired. "Yes, John. Let's go to bed."

John swallowed and grinned. "Just sleep, Sherlock."

"Yes, John," Sherlock replied low and rumbling. "Just sleep."


	23. Chapter 23

John lead the way to the ship's only bedroom with Sherlock following. He cast only one brief glance over his shoulder to see if the detective followed and Sherlock rewarded him with one lopsided grin. John felt a little lurch when he saw the gleam in Sherlock's eye. After all that had happened today, Sherlock could find something in this moment to seize upon, and John couldn't help but feel a fierce gladness that this hadn't broken either of them. They had found their way back to one another even after such betrayal and fear.

John opened the door doing a visual sweep of the room. It appeared just as he'd seen it earlier. He needed a nap at least, and Sherlock looked spent. John could tell when Sherlock used all his reserves to finish a case, and he looked that way now. "Come on. Take your shoes and coat off. Hang it over the loo door. John peeled his damp things off and draped them over the little desk and chair next to the bed. The room was like the rest of the ship, functional, spare complete. Certainly not the opulent setting Moriarty might have expected at the height of his empire.

John, now in his boxer shorts and vest, crawled under the sheets. Nice thread count, he noticed and comfortable duvet. Sherlock followed suit and got down to his briefs, no vest. "All right?" he asked before sliding in next to John.

"Yeah," John said and nodded to encourage the lanky man to continue. "I'm knackered. Let's try to get some rest before we try getting ourselves out of this.

Wordlessly, Sherlock pulled the covers up over his shoulder and turned on his side to face John. He reached out and placed a hand on John's shoulder. "Good night," he said.

"Good night, Sherlock," John returned closing his eyes. Watery, afternoon light filtered in from the one round window in the room, but he felt too tired to care. He'd sleep just fine for a while.

When he awoke, Sherlock slept peacefully beside him. One hand still rested on John's hip now as if Sherlock couldn't bear not to have some contact even in sleep. Darkness had descended, and the room appeared black dark. John had no idea how long he'd been out, but he felt much better. A roil of hunger shot through him. When had he last eaten? It might have been longer than twenty-four hours. He pulled himself out of bed, gathered up his clothes and moved toward the loo. He rubbed some water into this face and peed. He knew very little about the maintenance of a boat this size and had no idea how long the fresh water might last. Using one of his mother's maxims of "If it's brown flush it down and if it's yellow, let it mellow" John held off flushing just in case. He might be paranoid, but who knew how long they might float out on the open sea. They might have to be careful of what they had.

According to his wristwatch, he'd slept nearly five hours. A fair nap, he judged. He wanted something to eat now, so he dressed and left Sherlock to sleep. He quietly left the bedroom to find something edible in the galley. He found some beans and crackers and made a makeshift meal out of them. After that, he did a cursory inspection of their supplies and decided they could survive for at least a month or more if they were careful. Maybe they could fish to supplement their supply. They might be in real trouble if they weren't in one of the major shipping lanes.

The other danger, John thought, lie in the fact they were floating blind at night. Maybe one of them should start taking turns watching for landmasses. They could just as easily run into rocks or an island. Suddenly, John felt like he should be above deck. He could look for the flares and try his luck getting the radio to work. He went back into the main sitting room and rooted through all the drawers and cabinets for some communication device. He found nothing. Sherlock was probably right about Wells tossing their phones.

He entered the code and went back outside. When he got on deck, he took a moment to look up at the night sky. A glittering string of stars greeted him and gave him a moment's pause. John had no idea how long it had been since he'd been able to look up and see stars like these. New Mexico, maybe. He was just glad he was around to see this tonight.

Okay, stargazing later, he thought. Flares now.

Halfway to the engine cabin, he realized he'd have to go into the cramped room with Moriarty's corpse. "He's dead," John muttered to himself. "He's dead."

He marched ahead, and when he got to the cabin door, he yanked it open. He found a clicker switch that controlled an overhead light. He let out a breath when he saw the familiar shape under the plastic. One expensive leather shoe and leg still stuck out, still and somehow sad.

"Still dead," he muttered one last time and began opening every cupboard and storage area he could find. There were some cubbies and places to put things. Ships, it seemed, needed to utilize a limited amount of space well. Finally, he found a small metal box held shut with clips. Thankfully, it wasn't locked. John had it opened and almost laughed with delight when he saw the oversized flare pistol with its wide-open barrel and orange-tipped cap. Ten flares nestled beside it. Ten chances for rescue, John thought. He hauled the box up and set it near the door. He debated about whether or not to bring it downstairs but decided against it. It was heavy, and he didn't want to risk tripping or dropping it. Better to leave it here. A pair of binoculars hung from a peg near the ship's controls, and John used them to scan the horizon for any sight of land. A half-moon lit up the dark ocean, and he could see a fair distance. He went out on deck and looked around for almost twenty minutes straining as far as he could. Nothing for miles. Wells had done a spectacular job getting them good and lost, John thought. That little lurch of fear from before flared up again, and he wondered if he and Sherlock just might spend their last days drifting around on this boat.

"All right, Watson," he told the gloom around him. "Time to make a plan!"

"Aye, aye, Captain Watson," said a low voice just behind him.

"Christ, Sherlock. Don't startle me like that," John said couldn't help the smile that spread across his face. Sherlock stood hands thrust into his jacket's pockets. Sherlock was awake and now they could would fix this mess. When did it change? John had the idea that it had always been that way. Even through the bad times, he still felt the pull of Sherlock's magnetism. Together, they would get this under control.

"You found the flares?" Sherlock stated. It wasn't a question.

"Yes, in the cabin. There's ten. Ten chances, Sherlock. What do you think we should do?"

Sherlock stepped forward and placed his hands on top of John's shoulders. "I think we should set two off tonight. And, then two more each night after that. We can do one now and then one a few minutes later. Mycroft's people are going to be looking for us, and we should try to give them something to look for tonight."

"Yeah, sounds good," John said looking at his friend. "You ever fired a flare gun?"

"No, I'll leave that to you. I think you've got more experience with weapons than I do," Sherlock said. "I know you'll do fine."

The two of them went back into the cabin and retrieved the flares and gun. A little, printed sheet explained how to load and fire the thing, and John took a moment to read over the instructions. When he was ready, he pointed the pistol into the air and pulled the trigger. A bright red flare arched up into the clear sky and glowed brightly. It hovered for a few minutes, flashed several times, then fell into the sea. John sighed, "Let's pray someone saw that." The tiny fleck of light didn't feel hopeful, however. The partial moon had risen a few inches illuminating miles and miles of black waters. The raging winds had died down, but the mild ocean breeze chilled his skin. He shivered.

Sherlock saw him shiver and moved into wrap his arms around John. He'd redressed in his clothes and jacket, and John just let himself be held. "It will work, John." Sherlock rumbled in his ear.

"I know," John said. "We still have fuel and can run her west for as long as she'll go. We're bound to hit some part of Australia from here."

"Fire the other one," Sherlock said stepping back.

John did and watched the small, bright flash until it burned out. Then, feeling like he needed more than just an embrace, he intertwined his fingers into Sherlock's and both of them stood near the railing at the front of the ship and looked for any response from the sea.


	24. Chapter 24

They stood out on deck together for another hour and then John went down to the galley to make some more food while Sherlock stood watch.

"I'm not hungry, John," Sherlock said.

"Eat!" John commanded. "It won't do for you to weaken yourself for no reason. We've got plenty onboard. I think I saw some fishing nets during my search earlier too. If we have to, we can drop them overboard and see what they bring up."

"Fish, John?" Sherlock said in his haughtiest voice. He took the plate John thrust at him and began eating the beans and crackers.

"Yeah, well if we run out of edibles, you'll appreciate a fresh fish or two," John countered. He really hoped it would all be theoretical anyway. He'd done some survival training in the army and knew the basics of how to catch and clean game including fish, but it had been years since that training.

The sky pinkened in the east and that lightened John's spirits. A new day, a new hope, John thought. It that's east, I saw we turn the boat west and let her run. One of us needs to keep watch for land at all times. We can take turns sleeping,"

"Agreed," Sherlock said. "I do the first watch, you can go get some rest if you need more."

"I'm all right," John said. "I'll stay up here with you. But," John hesitated a moment, "we need to do something with the body. He's going to start to smell soon and we've got to use the engine room. Let's find a secure location for it and move him before he gets too bad."

Sherlock swallowed and looked toward the covered form. "I'll take the head and you take the feet," he managed. We'll take it up out on deck for now."

Together, they scouted around and found a storage locker on the side deck held in place by a padlock. Sherlock picked the lock and they placed the still-wrapped body inside. Grateful for the canvas covering, John found he did not want to see the man's face ever again. Vanquishing the villain wasn't like in the movies. Most films ended when the hero gets the bad guy, and someone, (usually not the hero) came in and cleaned up afterward. John wondered how Sherlock was handling this aspect of it. But, he only clenched his jaw and went grimly to work to get the job done.

Later, they returned to the cabin and John asked, "What do you want to do…after?"

"After?" Sherlock asked looking confused. They both perched on the stools near the ship's controls. Sherlock had one hand on the throttle and one on the wheel. Their westward movement had been steady and sure.

"After we get back," John tried again. He wanted to talk about their future, his future. He didn't want Sherlock dwelling on grimness at hand. "We're going to get home, you know," John said. "What do you want to do when we get back?"

Sherlock stood silent for long time. "Mycroft and the Yard know I'm alive now. Baker Street is still there, John. I'll go there first, but I won't consider it home unless…" here he paused. "Unless you're there too," he finally said.

"I can't imagine Baker Street without Sherlock Holmes," John said and grinned. "I'm sure Mrs. Hudson will have a thing or two to say to us, however."

"Us?" Sherlock said sliding off his stool and coming to stand next to John. "Does that mean you'll come back….home?"

"You have to promise me, Sherlock, promise me you'll always talk to me about what you're feeling in the future. You have to let me arrive at things in my own way, in my own time."

"Yes, I promise," Sherlock said looking steadily into John's eyes. "I won't ever take you for granted again. Without you, I'm as adrift as we are in this boat."

John reached up and put his hand on Sherlock's cheek. He leaned forward and Sherlock met him half-way. They kissed long and sweetly.

"All right. I'll come home," he said.

They spent the day heading west. When night fell again, they let off two more rounds of flares. John stared at endless ocean and felt his heart sink. They were clueless landlubbers. If only he'd joined the Navy, he'd have some kind of idea how to get out of this mess. They'd torn the boat apart looking for their phones or any other method of help. Nothing.

"I'll take this watch. Get some sleep Sherlock," John had said when he saw Sherlock's eyes glazing over. "I'm not arguing. Go downstairs and get some rest. You can relieve me in a few hours." Sherlock nodded and shuffled off to find his bed. He'd become strangely compliant, obeying suggestions to eat, sleep and generally take care of himself. It eased John's mind a great deal but it worried him as well. He had no idea how much penance Sherlock felt he needed to perform to satisfy John. John didn't really know what the detective might do to earn back John's trust. But, the last thing John wanted was to twist Sherlock into something he was not. In the end, that would feel like he'd collared Sherlock.

He watched for at least five or six dark hours. Just as John's mind began to grow fuzzy from lack of sleep, he saw the light ahead. He had no idea if it was a ship or something else. "Sherlock!" he shouted forgetting the fact the man was downstairs. "What do I do?" he asked the wind coming off the sea.

Think, Watson. He went to the box with the remaining flares. They had six left. He'd shoot one now and see if got the light's attention. If it were a ship, perhaps they would answer his distress signal. After firing off a single shot, he flew out of the cabin and pelted down stairs as quickly as he could minding the slippery parts of the deck. He burst into the room only to find a frowzy Sherlock still sleeping. He sat up and asked, "What?"

"Light, Sherlock. Off the starboard bow."

Sherlock got out of bed pulling his shirt on over his thin shoulders. They both clambered back up the stairs and strained to catch a glimpse of whatever was out there.

"I see it, John!" Sherlock said excitedly. "Did you fire a flare?"

"Yeah, should I do another?" John asked worriedly. Maybe they didn't see the first one. The bright flash had already dissipated before Sherlock had made his way on deck.

"This is a good chance," Sherlock said. "Let's fire another."

John's hands wavered just a bit as he took aim again and pulled the trigger. They both watched the red flare arc up, pulsate brilliantly for a few seconds then fall back toward the ocean. That left them with only four more chances. Nothing happened for a full minute then, with a gasp, John saw a bright yellow flare rise up from the light in answer. "They've seen us!" he said shouting. "Sherlock, they've seen us."

He embraced Sherlock intensely then reared back and kissed him soundly on the mouth. "You bloody, brilliant man."

Sherlock held him tightly, grinning. And if his eyes shone a little more brightly than they normally do, well John wouldn't call his attention to it.


	25. Chapter 25

Sherlock moved the boat toward the light. There was nothing for it now but to wait for who or whatever sent up the yellow flare. John prayed it wasn't pirates or worse, but this area wasn't known for it so he tried to continue breathing normally as he watched their ship get closer to the light. The sun began its slow climb in the east and lightened up the sea in increments. It took another 25 minutes before they could make out the shape of another ship.

It looked like a freighter ship and John's heart skipped a beat. Could be a legitimate boat? he thought fervently.

"Could be a human trafficking ship, or…." Sherlock said squinting off into the distance.

"Don't," John said. "Don't say it. It'll just bring bad luck. They'll have a radio at least and we can buy a few minutes on it if nothing else."

"It's fine," Sherlock acquiesced, shading his eyes with one long fingered hand. "They are not pirates, at least."

"How do you know?" John asked hopefully.

"I recognize the name," he said smiling. "The Dreadnaught. It's a boat I'm familiar with. I had to use it once before during…"

John looked up at him sharply for a moment. "During my absence?" he finished.

"Yes. I used a few of my own contacts to help me stay under the radar. I know this captain. He'll help us."

John breathed out a lungful of breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding in. "That's a relief," he said.

"John, we're saved. You're saved. That's all I care about. But, you'll never know how much it meant to me when you showed up on this ship while I was captured. I didn't know how it might end with Wells. I suspected it might end the way it did, but I'm glad you were there for it after all. I wanted you to see the end of it."

"We're going to be all right, Sherlock," John said and took the detective's hand. "This was the hardest part. To be honest, I didn't think we'd both survive it and now that we have, I'm looking forward to getting back."

"I'll do whatever it takes to gain your trust again, John," Sherlock said and brought John's had up to his lips to brush a kiss over it.

"I know you will," John said.

The boarded the Dreadnaught a half hour later. Sherlock and John were escorted directly to the captain's cabin and were allowed to use the radio. Sherlock made contact with the mainland and then to a secure channel to Mycroft's men. They made their way back to 221B Baker Street.


End file.
